


The Royal Caravan

by Jade56



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Adorable Sherlock, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst, Archery, BAMF John, Bees, Blushing Sherlock, Bottom Sherlock, Chemistry, Consensual, Falling In Love, Flowers, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Jousting, King John, Light Bondage, M/M, Pining, Servant Sherlock, Sexual Content, Top John, violin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-11-11 08:40:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 52,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11144877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jade56/pseuds/Jade56
Summary: Sherlock, a mere servant, is stunned when the powerful, magnificent King John offers Sherlock the opportunity to join him on a journey. At first, it is exciting for Sherlock to serve such a strong, gallant man, but what is a servant to do when he falls in love with a king, especially when that king must someday sire a rightful heir?





	1. The Tournament

**Author's Note:**

> The rating is for chapter 3 and on. Also, although Sherlock wishes he could carry John's heir, there won't be any mpreg in this story.

It would have been difficult for Sherlock to think of a more monotonous and uninteresting task than cleaning every weapon kept in the storage room, but unfortunately, this was the chore that the servant had been saddled with.

He had to admit that there was a certain aspect to the chore that was a little fascinating, at least at first. It was interesting to feel the weight and smoothness of the weapons used by the esteemed fighters who had come from faraway lands to compete in the tournament. The ways in which the heaviness and sharpness differed between the weapons used by warriors from different kingdoms, who each employed varying materials and fought with different techniques, absorbed the under-used faculties of Sherlock’s mind.

There was another element to the weapons that Sherlock appreciated as well: those who wielded them. He was more than a little intrigued by the warriors themselves, who spent hours honing their skills in combat, who held great strength in their arms, and in their force of will. It was compelling to see experienced fingers neatly pulling an arrow back, or muscles being flexed as a lance was thrown heroically. Thinking of what he had managed to glimpse in the tournament so far, remembering the exhilarating displays of fortitude against ever-stronger opponents and ever-changing challenges, Sherlock felt his heart start to beat a little faster.

Sherlock supposed that he was stirred by what he saw in these warriors, simply because it was so much different from what he could see in himself. He was thin and unimpressive, his skin fair and fragile; he wore a plain knee-length tunic and unadorned breeches that would have looked ridiculous on one of those brawny, robust knights. He generally held a cleaning rag or some other basic tool that he kept in his ordinary satchel; he had never wielded weapons in combat, or held anything admirable.

Yet, not all the tournament’s contestants fascinated Sherlock equally. In fact, just one of the warriors had dominated Sherlock’s interest.

Among the wide variety of skilled soldiers present in the tournament were members of royalty, including kings who had earned honours in battle. It was one of these kings, a handsome man with light-coloured hair and broad shoulders, who had caught Sherlock’s eye, ever since the servant had sneaked away from his boring duties to watch one of the exciting rounds of the archery competition. In that event, archers managed brilliant shots, one after another, competing against the shots of their opponents. The king had matched the efforts of the most renowned bowman in the country, and certainly defeated the other archers he competed against, none of whom were novices.

Though Sherlock knew little about the warriors in the tournament, the fact that the man was a king had been abundantly clear. Most obviously, the man wore a crown, and he was finely dressed. This was no mere prince, however, as he held his head with the command of one who made important decisions, and he walked with the step of someone who expects others to make way.

Finally, it was the king’s manner with the bow that assured his status to Sherlock. Who else but a king would stand with that commanding bearing, standing with impeccable form, his feet perpendicular to the target, his grip confidently relaxed on the bow handle, his fingers easily pulling back the string?

Sherlock had pushed his way through the crowd, so that he could move close enough to see everything he could possibly see. He was able to glimpse the magnificent picture that the king made as he was poised to shoot, the arrow sticking out an inch past the bow. The arrows moved so quickly that Sherlock could only follow their path belatedly, though he tried to watch their movement as best he could. He could not fathom why, but he needed to see as much of those arrows, as much of this skilled force coming from the king’s capable hand, as he possibly could.

The king’s arrows flew unerringly to their painted wooden targets, and the sound of each arrow piercing its goal was impossibly loud. The crowd must have been cheering, and yet, the only sound that Sherlock could focus on was that of the arrow’s impact, and the only sight he cared to observe was that of the valiant king, who calmly notched another arrow on his bow.

The string was pulled back again, gracefully, as if even the string itself was struck by the king’s commanding air, and could do nothing but move as the royal hand directed. As Sherlock had watched the king aim his next arrow with that same unerring steadiness, with powerful control and yet also with a kind of tender guidance, it had occurred to the servant that he might do much the same in the string’s place.

At once, Sherlock shook his head, trying to rid himself of these feelings.

It would do him no good to admire a visiting king who would no doubt leave town as soon as the tournament was over. It would be best if he could concentrate on this boring task, so that he might finish sooner and be done with it. Then, perhaps, he would have time to watch the last few exciting battles of the tournament.

As he slid a cloth along yet another blade, Sherlock couldn’t help but recall how the king had magnanimously clasped the arm of each of his opponents in the archery contest. This was something Sherlock had seen the king do in the sword-fighting contest, as well, which took place some days after the tests of archery. The king had looked glorious in combat, wearing shining armour and wielding a heavy sword. After the king had knocked his enemy to the ground, he had helped the fallen opponent to his feet, and acknowledged a battle well fought with a nod of his head.

Sherlock had acquired a closer seat for that contest, but the king had worn a helmet, so the servant could not make out anything more of the king’s face. Truly, that was a pity. Sherlock would have appreciated having a face to hold in his mind as he cleaned yet another sword. This task would be so much more interesting if he could picture the features of one who had the strength and character to wield this weapon and use it as only the noblest warrior could. He would have liked to know how the king looked when he grunted from the exertion of swinging a sword against his inferior opponent.

With a frustrated sigh, Sherlock shook his head again. These distracting thoughts were not helping him finish his task any faster. Trying very hard to concentrate on his duty, he oiled the sword that he was holding, which would keep the blade in good condition.

It was a disappointment for Sherlock to look at his own hands, after remembering the feats of the formidable king. Sherlock was wearing gloves, which was standard for servants cleaning these weapons, to avoid leaving rusty fingerprints. The gloves, which were an old, worn pair, could not hide the weak, uninspiring hands within. These gloves had seen many cloths and oils, and the servant’s hands had known many brooms and sponges—such a disappointment, when compared to gauntlets that shined under the midday sun, and beneath them, fingers that handled bows and blades with ease.

There was a loud clang. It startled Sherlock, though he should have seen it coming. The sword he had been trying to clean had fallen onto floor.

“Careless,” Sherlock muttered at himself, “foolish, and careless.” He bent to retrieve the sword, and took to cleaning it once more.

There were noble, glorious people like that king, who journeyed to grand tournaments and won the cheers of crowds, and then there were plain servants like Sherlock, who never went on exciting journeys or performed great feats. Sherlock’s role in life was to clean what he was told to clean, fetch what he was told to fetch, and try not to get caught when he got intolerably bored from the cleaning and the fetching and did something he shouldn’t.

He heard footsteps walking down the hall outside the room. It was probably his employer, who had hired him as one of the many servants who cleaned up for the tournament. Whoever it was probably meant to make sure that Sherlock was doing his work.

The sound of the storage room door opening could be heard, but Sherlock did not turn that way. He had no wish to speak to anyone. He hoped that if he kept working and said nothing, his employer would be satisfied and leave.

“Have the lances been cleaned yet?” a forthright voice asked.

Sherlock didn’t recognise the voice, which was strange, as he would have remembered such an authoritative tone. “No, I—oh!” he exclaimed, when at last he turned.

Standing there was the splendid king he had seen in the tournament. Despite no longer being outfitted in plate armour, the king was no less splendid now than he had been before. Being this close, Sherlock could clearly see that the king had a broad, athletic build. He was not wearing the regal garments he had worn before the crowd, but his fine garments still proclaimed his nobility.

Sherlock’s mind stumbled to a halt when he saw, at last, the face of the king. He had a strong jaw, and rough-looking brown stubble. It was at the moment when Sherlock’s gaze met steady, sparkling eyes that there was another loud clang.

“Oh, sorry,” Sherlock whispered, dropping his eyes to the floor, to the sword he had dropped once again. He felt himself flush from the embarrassment of being so clumsy in front of this man.

Before Sherlock could pick up the weapon, however, the king was doing it for him.

“I’ve got it,” the king said. He was smiling. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

“No,” Sherlock answered softly, still embarrassed, but grateful that this man had not judged him harshly for his blunder.

The king turned the sword over with expert hands, clearly ascertaining the weight and usefulness of the blade as if he had done it countless times before, which he surely had. “A sturdy blade,” the king remarked. “Do you fight with the sword?”

Sherlock loved to watch the king study the weapon. He was tempted to ask questions about the king’s technique. It would not be suitable for a servant to bother a king with questions, however. “No,” he said simply, “I only clean them, sir.”

Returning the blade to Sherlock, the king looked at Sherlock expectantly. It occurred to the servant that he hadn’t answered the king’s first question.

“Oh, the lances, you asked about the lances,” he said, too quickly, flustered under the steady gaze aimed at him. “No, I have not cleaned them yet. I am sorry, sir. I will clean them soon.”

“Very well. I didn’t mean to rush you,” the king said, in his calm, rough voice, which was a captivating sound to Sherlock. “I’m sure they’ll be ready in time for the joust.”

“Yes, absolutely, sir. I’m very sorry the task has not been already done, sir.”

The king gave him a long, measuring look, which nearly made Sherlock squirm. “Do you have a name?”

The servant hesitated before giving his answer, as the question was very unexpected. “Sherlock. But you don’t have to remember that.”

“Sherlock. That’s an unusual name, but a lovely one. It suits you well.”

There must have been a bright flush on Sherlock’s face right now, if the warmth he felt in his face was anything to go by.

“Sherlock, you’re doing a great job here. You’ve cleaned the swords well.”

Such kind praise from the king made Sherlock smile, despite the polite air he was trying to maintain. “Thank you, sir.”

“I hope I will see you in the audience at the joust.”

The thought of this entrancing man commanding a horse and fearlessly striking his lance against the shields of other knights was almost more than Sherlock could bear. “Of course I will be there, sir.”

“My name is John, by the way.”

It was ridiculously kind for the king to introduce himself in such a humble way, without his title, for the servant’s benefit. It was too kind, in fact. Sherlock could not allow it in good conscience. “King John.”

The king looked at him with interest. “You know me?”

“I know that you are a king. I have seen you in a crown, and there can be no doubt that you have the demeanour of the highest authority.” Sherlock bowed his head. King John’s smile was proving far too distracting, and in any case, Sherlock was obliged to show this man his due respect. “Indeed, sir, a man in your position should not have to roam these halls unescorted. Should I call a guard for you, sir?”

With a smirk, King John leaned back, and crossed his arms. It was an inexplicable joy for Sherlock to watch the muscles of King John’s arms move as they were crossed over his broad chest. “Do I look like I need a guard, Sherlock?”

“Certainly not.” Sherlock knew he was probably blushing again; there was a chance that he had been doing so this whole time. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“No trouble. It’s good of you to make sure I’m all set. Well, best of luck with all this work. I suppose I might be seeing you at the joust.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, sir. I rarely have the chance to see something so exciting.”

“Exciting?” King John did not sound so certain.

“Isn’t it exciting, sir?” Sherlock asked, truly curious. “You have journeyed far to test yourself against worthy opponents. Isn’t that exciting?”

King John’s smile had vanished. In its place had come an unhappy, brooding grimace. The king seemed to be thinking about something, and his thoughts could not have been happy ones.

A blow of regret fell upon Sherlock. It was a horrible misdeed to have been so presumptuous about the king’s feelings. It seemed unthinkable to him that King John wouldn’t find excitement in the challenge of the tournament, but he should have known not to make assumptions, especially about a king whose life must have been filled with all sorts of better adventures.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Sherlock murmured.

It was ludicrous, how often he had to apologize for his inappropriate behaviour. Sherlock was not fit to speak to a king. He had long been subservient to nobles, but it seemed that he would never learn how to speak to them correctly, as their subordinate.

“It’s fine,” King John said. “Really, it’s all right. There is some excitement in the tournament.” The strange melancholy remained, though he was forgiving to Sherlock at least. It was more than Sherlock deserved, in the servant’s opinion. “I should be going now. Goodbye, Sherlock.”

“Goodbye, sir.”

The king left the storage room, leaving Sherlock to finish his work. The silence was lonely. It had always been lonely, and yet Sherlock felt more alone than ever without the presence of that kind, fascinating King John. At least, if the king had stayed, Sherlock might have found some way to make up for his impudence, though it was more likely he would have made more of a fool of himself.

He sighed, and oiled the next sword under his care. Even if he was certainly never going to have another chance to speak to King John, Sherlock could at least look forward to the joust, at which time he would be able to see the king in action once again.

~~

The jousting competition was the last part of the tournament. It was fitting to end the event on a sport that most demonstrated the courage and skill of the knights and members of royalty in the contest. Warriors in full plate armour, each equipped with a lance and shield, faced each other in honourable combat on horses.

The duels took place in a roped-off enclosure, with stadium seating all around the arena. There was a tremendous audience. Many people excitedly cheered on beloved heroes and admired members of royalty. They also jeered at the contestants that did not have their favour.

Sherlock would have to help clean up after the day’s round was over, but for now, he was free to cheer from his close seat. A number of individuals were competing that day; Sherlock was only concerned with one.

King John was stunning on his horse, as Sherlock expected. The well-cleaned lance in his hand glinted like his armour, and his shield bore the dazzling visage of a proud lion on a red and gold background. Like the rider, his white horse was also armoured, and wore an ornamental cloth with the symbol of the lion.

The unfortunate opponents who faced King John hardly stood a chance. They were knocked to the ground in almost no time at all. It had not seemed possible, but the king seemed to be even stronger than he had been in the previous contests. Sherlock clutched his poor satchel as he watched in rapt anticipation when the king mounted his horse once more and battled his last challenger. King John’s lance crashed against the opposing shield, and then there could be no doubt that he would be the victor of this tournament.

Sherlock thought that the proud king looked in his direction when he was declared triumphant, but it was much more likely that King John was merely facing the crowd that cheered for his success.

There were other battles to be done between other warriors, but when King John left the arena, surrounded by an entourage of nobles and knights, Sherlock immediately left his seat. He didn’t try to follow the king, for he was certain that he would not be welcome in such esteemed company. There was no reason for him to stay in the audience, though.

He had no place in King John’s company, nor in the audience, and truly, he had no place anywhere else. Thus, Sherlock wandered, until he found a quiet bench. He had a little more time until he had to see to his cleaning duties. The free time was more a curse than a blessing; he had nothing to engage his mind, no adventures to look forward to. There was only his life as a servant.

Sherlock’s employment with the tournament would soon be over, and he would have to find new work, with people who cared not what he could do with his mind or what he felt in his heart, only that he was a poor servant. He would always be one. That was his lot in life.

If he held with him the memory of a broad-shouldered king with a commanding voice and caring eyes, then that was his own business.

“Sherlock?”

Startled, Sherlock almost jumped from where he sat. The commanding voice he had just been remembering had spoken to him, and, yes, there were the caring eyes that he had so fondly thought of.

King John was standing before him. He no longer had plate armour. Instead, he was dressed in clothing like that of a knight resting from battle, and was flushed from his exertion in the tournament. His followers were gone. He was looking directly at Sherlock, with a concerned expression.

To be near the king was so thrilling that it took a regrettably long time for Sherlock to regain his presence of mind. “Your Majesty,” he said at last, rising from the bench and bowing his head. “Can I help you?”

The king sat down next to Sherlock on the bench, and waved for the servant to take his seat again. “I only wanted to thank you for cheering me on.”

Sitting back down, Sherlock was struck by the kindness in King John’s face. He wanted to touch that face, to feel the stubble around that gentle smile. That was not an appropriate desire for a mere servant to have, however; he would have to save that fantasy for the privacy of his own thoughts, later.

“Your faith in me helped me win the day,” King John continued, earnestly.

“I hardly think you needed my help, sir.” In shyness, Sherlock averted his gaze from the noble presence that seemed to take up so much of the bench. “How did you know I was cheering you on?”

“I saw you in the crowd.”

Sherlock doubted this. “Of the thousands of people who were present,” he said, “I doubt that you would have picked me out.”

“You were pretty close to the arena.”

His eyes still averted, Sherlock fiddled with the worn satchel resting on his hip. “In any case, you had no reason to notice me. I am not very eye-catching.”

Suddenly, Sherlock felt a light touch on his cheek. Shock knocked the air out of Sherlock’s chest. Was the king truly touching him? He was afraid to turn and find out, in case doing so would break the wonderful illusion.

“It would have been hard _not_ to notice you.” The rough, rich voice that spoke could belong to no one but King John. “Your skin is so fair, and your eyes so bright. You shined in that crowd as the white moon shines in the darkness.”

Stunned by this praise, Sherlock looked at the generous king, and felt great relief when the finger gently touching his face was not pulled away. King John started moving his finger slowly down Sherlock’s cheek, making the servant shiver.

“It was so easy, Sherlock, to see how tense you were with excitement. You were living in the moment as no one else around you was. You saw every movement, didn’t you? Tell me, Sherlock. Did you see everything? Every little detail of how I swung the lance, for instance?”

 _Swung_ seemed to Sherlock to be an entirely insufficient word to describe the command with which the king made the weapon his own. A lance held in King John’s hand had no choice but to strike just as the king wished.

“I could not take my eyes away from you.” Sherlock felt vulnerable, admitting so much, but it was all right. The king was stroking his cheek reassuringly.

“You know, it was easy to see you in the crowd, though it was quite a job, finding you here. I wanted to see you again as soon as I could get away from the other nobles, but it seemed like you left as soon as I was done. I had to ask around to find you.”

Sherlock couldn't understand why this grand figure would take an interest in him. “Why look for me, sir?”

“To thank you, for your support. Didn’t I tell you that?” King John took back the hand that had been touching Sherlock’s face.

Instantly, Sherlock’s cheek felt far too cold. He really should have kept his mouth shut. When would he ever learn? “Yes, of course. I’m sorry sir.” It was still difficult to believe that the king would simply want to thank him, but Sherlock did not want to cause any more offence by posing more inane questions.

“I really did want to thank you, Sherlock. It meant a lot to me to see you there. I hope you enjoyed the contest.”

“Absolutely, sir.”

“And the rest of the tournament, too? I know you were employed by the tournament, but I hope you enjoyed what you saw?”

“I certainly did, sir.”

“That’s good. I’ve been wondering, what are you going to do now that the tournament is over?”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“For work. The tournament is finishing up. Do you do something else for a living, Sherlock?”

It was astonishing to Sherlock that the king would be so interested in the servant’s life. Nevertheless, he answered the king, of course. “I will be without work when the tournament ends.”

Sherlock’s fate was to move from one servant position to the next. Employers never wanted him for very long.

“Have you considered what you will… Sherlock? Sherlock, is something wrong?”

King John was saying words, yet Sherlock hardly comprehended him, so absorbed was he in his own thoughts. It could not be denied that he made a poor servant. Even when his duties were simple, he failed miserably. Sherlock would too easily give in to his boredom and curiosity, and he would sneak into places where he did not belong, or eavesdrop on conversations not meant for his ears.

Sherlock had a very bad habit of spying. He’d been scolded enough to know that this was true. He didn’t mean to upset his employers by doing it; he was only interested in their lives, which were so much more noteworthy than his own. He was also generally terrible at following directions. His mind would wander, or he would become intrigued by some unimportant part of his task. All things considered, he was not anyone’s ideal servant.

Though he could never move to a higher station in life, Sherlock could have at least done better to serve his masters. As a result of his inadequacy, he had even less freedom now than he ever did. He was always at the mercy of employers in enough need of another servant for a while. Sherlock would never be worthy of living securely in the service of a great master who wished to keep him, in some exciting place far away from here.

“Sherlock!”

The servant suddenly became aware of King John standing in front of him, holding Sherlock’s shoulders firmly. Sherlock, still sitting on the bench, looked up at the king with bewilderment. He had forgotten why the king was there.

“Ah, there you are,” the king said softly. “Welcome back.”

“I’m s-sorry,” Sherlock stammered, at a complete loss for what to do when being touched by both of King John’s hands and enveloped by his gaze, “I d-didn’t mean to alarm you. My mind sometimes wanders.”

“You looked sad. What were you sad about, Sherlock?”

“Nothing, n-nothing that I should bother you with, sir.” Self-conscious under King John’s scrutiny, Sherlock tried to squirm out of his hold, but the effort was half-hearted, and not nearly enough to hinder the king.

“Tell me.” King John murmured the command softly, though that did nothing to lessen its effect on Sherlock.

“I don’t know what I will do when this tournament is over. Few people want to hire me, sir. I’m not a desirable servant.”

“Well, I have a hard time believing that.” The king released his shoulders and smiled at him, with none of the mockery that Sherlock would have anticipated from someone so superior to him. “You’re clearly very thorough. I don’t think my lance was ever cleaned so well.”

Sherlock giggled at the unexpected compliment. He stopped himself as soon as he could. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be sorry. I thought that was a charming sound.”

“You’re very kind, sir.”

The king was still looking down at him. “Have you thought about leaving this town?”

“Leaving this town?” The idea was incredible to Sherlock. This town was the only place he had ever known. Living somewhere new was an exciting prospect, as well as a frightening one. In any case, such a thing was not feasible. “I hardly have the means for travel, sir, and I would not know where to go.”

“But would you want to leave, if you could? You could find something better, somewhere you’d be appreciated like you should be.”

Again struck by the king’s compassion, Sherlock almost giggled again from sheer embarrassment. “Well, I don’t know about that. But this town is very boring. It would be an adventure, to go somewhere new. Of course, that is impossible.”

King John seemed thoughtful for a moment, slowly running his hand through his smooth hair. Sherlock had the urge to touch that hair, to learn just how smooth it was. Before Sherlock was done studying that hair as best he could from where he sat, however, the king spoke. “The tournament will be over soon. I left trustworthy advisors to oversee things in my kingdom in my absence, but I must eventually return to my people. I will make the journey along with a convoy of other nobles and merchants. I don’t think it would be too much trouble if you travelled with us. Plus, it never hurts to have another useful pair of hands on the road.”

Sherlock stared at the king with wide eyes. “I could travel with you?”

“It wouldn’t be a totally free ride, Sherlock. You’d have to help with chores around the convoy, of course. And it will be a long journey. There are always challenges on a long journey. Not to mention, you’d be going to unfamiliar places, and everything would be new to you.”

Every word of warning conjured images of adventure in Sherlock’s mind. He couldn’t have imagined anything more exciting than joining a convoy for a long journey, during which there would be thrilling challenges to overcome and unique places to explore.

A hand was placed on his shoulder, more gently than before.

“You like that idea?” The king asked, though from his tone, he clearly saw the joy on Sherlock’s features. “I’m sure you’ll find good employment somewhere in my kingdom.”

Stunned by the king’s sympathy, Sherlock could hardly speak. “I owe you much for this, sir,” he managed to say. He trembled with gratitude, and his voice was close to breaking. “I wish I had some way to repay you. There’s nothing I can give you.”

“Don’t worry. It will be a pleasure to have you on the journey. I personally don’t think it’s very exciting,” the king said. The melancholy that Sherlock witnessed once before on the King John’s face returned, but only momentarily. “That’s probably only because I’ve been on many journeys. I think it’ll be better though, with you there.”

Sherlock marvelled at the king, who had experienced so much and yet still possessed such a noble spirit.

“Think about it, Sherlock. If you’re still interested when the tournament is over, let me know, and I’ll find a spot for you in the convoy.”

Naturally, the king was the one to end their conversation. He turned and walked away, leaving Sherlock with powerful feelings in his chest. He felt great enthusiasm for what might happen, he was bewildered by this incredible opportunity, and he was terrified of the great unknown.

Of all the feelings he felt, the one that stirred him the most was whatever peculiar emotion made his heart stutter when he watched the king stride with confidence back towards the arena.


	2. The Departure

King John was declared the champion of the tournament. This did not come as a surprise to Sherlock, nor was he surprised by the graciousness of the king when he was declared victorious. He honoured those who had faced him in combat; his noble and chivalrous manner only made the crowd adore him even more.

It took some time before Sherlock could see the king, who was busy being congratulated by nobles and knights. It was not the place of a servant to demand an audience with the king when there were such prestigious people speaking to him already, of course. As the day continued, however, Sherlock found himself impatient to talk to King John. When Sherlock at last worked up the courage to approach His Majesty, the king saw him at once, dismissing the princesses he had been speaking with a moment before.

The princesses were beautiful and refined, and it would not have been hard to believe that King John had enjoyed conversing with them. Sherlock was not at all sorry to see them dismissed.

“It’s good to see you again, Sherlock,” King John said, sounding very sincere. If Sherlock didn’t know better, he would have thought that His Majesty was happy to have those princesses gone, and to be alone with the servant again. That would be absurd, though. It was probably only Sherlock’s wishful thinking. “Have you considered my offer? Do you wish to join my convoy?”

Sherlock nodded. “I do.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” Again, King John sounded honest, yet it seemed unlikely that the king felt much of anything about a simple servant joining his convoy. Sherlock was certain that the king was only being considerate. “The convoy leaves in a few days, so there is plenty of time to find you a spot.”

“In only a few days?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah, that’s right. You sound surprised?”

“Well, it only seemed like you might wish to stay in this town a little longer, since you have been so triumphant in the tournament. Won’t there be celebrations in your honour, or things like that?”

“Oh, in that case, we’d better head out even sooner.” The king chuckled, thought it was not an entirely happy noise. “Maybe it seems glamorous to you, Sherlock, but I’d be bored stiff. Those people don’t really care about me. They’re not interested in doing anything but promoting themselves. No, the sooner we can start off, the better.”

Sherlock had no qualms with this, and agreed to meet the king the next day to make arrangements for the servant in the convoy.

Though there was still some time before the convoy departed, people were already beginning to load cargo to bring with them on the journey. It was easy for Sherlock to tell that many members of the convoy were merchants. There were also some nobles who wished to bring souvenirs home. Several workers were finishing up repairs on some of the caravans, and some guards patrolled the convoy.

Sherlock had never before seen so many giant vehicles at the same time. The convoy was a group of many caravans that would be travelling together. These enormous, horse-drawn carriages were equipped for living in, though they all varied considerably in size and colour. There were some that were like mobile tents, with canvas stretched over curved wooden frames. Some of the caravans had wooden roofs. Some had the door at the front by the driver, some at the side of the vehicle. A few of them even had chimneys to accommodate a fireplace. All of them had big, sturdy wheels that were necessary for long journeys.

“What kind of people would you like to travel with, Sherlock?”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock’s heart sank. “Won’t I be travelling with you, sir?”

“You don’t have to. I can compensate any of these caravans for making room for you during the journey. I know many of them would agree to it, especially since it’s always good to have another set of hands.”

“But I thought I would be with you, sir.” It was difficult to keep the desperation of out his voice, and Sherlock was not really sure that he was able to. “Couldn’t I be useful to you, somehow?”

The king actually seemed surprised. “You might not want that, Sherlock… I’m not the easiest master to serve. A king has a lot of things that need taking care of. The work could be demanding.”

“I would not mind, sir.”

“Well, I know you can take care of weapons, so that’s good. Do you know how mend clothes?”

“Of course, sir. I am accustomed to repairing my own clothes and shoes.”

“Can you cook?”

“Yes. I usually cook for myself.”

“You certainly are useful, aren’t you?”

Sherlock blushed. “I hope so, sir.”

“I suppose you’ll do well.” King John smiled approvingly, and it made Sherlock blush even more. “Let me show you my caravan.”

The king led the way to the front of the convoy, to the caravan that sat in front of the others, shining in all its regal glory. The wood was brightly painted in red and gold. It was a beautiful exterior, but that was all Sherlock could tell. The caravan’s door, located where the driver would sit, was closed, and only curtains could be seen through the door’s small window. This was also the case with the larger window on the side of the caravan.

Sherlock eagerly followed the king to the door of the caravan, and when the king opened it, the servant gasped.

Every inch of the caravan spoke of its occupant’s prestige. The interior of the caravan boasted lavish tapestries and carved details accented with gold. There was a long built-in sofa on the side, cabinets, a wardrobe, a chest of drawers that was also a table, and at the rear of the caravan, a built-in bed, which spanned from one side of the large caravan to the other. From where he stood, Sherlock could see the excellent curtains that covered the side window, as well as those over another small window at the rear, above the bed. Everything in the caravan was made from the finest material.

“What do you think of my caravan?” the king asked.

The incredible design and craftsmanship of the vehicle left Sherlock in awe. “It is magnificent, sir.”

“You won’t have a problem sleeping here, then? We’ll be stopping in inns when possible, but there won’t always be towns on the road, so you’ll often have to sleep on the sofa. Will that be a problem?”

Sherlock turned to the sofa. He reached for it, slowly enough so that the king could tell him not to if he was not allowed, and when the king said nothing, Sherlock touched the plush surface of the sofa. It was certainly more comfortable than any bed Sherlock had ever known.

It was probably not as fine as the king’s bed.

That thought brought a frisson of heat through Sherlock, and he decided it was best not to think too much about that bed and its owner, or else he might embarrass himself.

“Not a problem, sir,” he told the king.

They left the caravan, and the king closed the door behind them.

“This is really very generous of you, sir,” Sherlock said.

The king shook his head. “I was in need of a servant, anyway. Oh, speaking of which… there’s something you should know, Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked at the king with rapt interest. “What is it?”

“I had a maid before. She slept in the sofa for much of the journey here. But dark moods sometimes came over me, and I could be depressing to be around. She said as much, and she resigned.”

Sherlock had seen some hint of these dark moods before, when melancholy had briefly darkened the king’s strong features. “I will not leave you, sir.”

“You haven’t stayed in the same caravan as myself, yet. I do get upset, sometimes. I try not to, but… You might think I’m no good to be around.”

“I won’t let you down,” Sherlock stated, with conviction. “You have been very generous to me, sir. I won’t leave. I’ll be the perfect maid for you.”

When Sherlock said this, the handsome king eyed him with such attention that Sherlock had to avert his eyes in shyness.

“Good,” was all that King John uttered.

The servant was then dismissed, leaving Sherlock to gather his belongings for the journey.

This should have been a momentous undertaking, as Sherlock expected never to return to this town. Yet there was little for him to do. Of what meagre objects he possessed, he sold what did not need to be taken with him, and packed the remaining larger items—merely several pieces of clothing and a shaving kit—in a bag. He placed his small effects in his satchel, which he was already in the habit of using to store a number of tools, including sewing materials, a hairbrush, and a mirror.

There were few people to say goodbye to. Sherlock was not close with anyone in his town, and he was only somewhat acquainted with the people who lived near him. Mainly, he informed his landlord that he would not be living there anymore.

Thus, having easily packed and more easily bid this town goodbye, Sherlock embarked on the voyage that would change his life forever. With his light satchel carried across his body, and his heavy bag over his back, Sherlock left his modest neighbourhood and marched to the grounds where the convoy was waiting.

That was where King John would be waiting.

King John was not the only reason Sherlock wanted to go on this journey. The rugged, gallant king was a likeable man, of course, and a pleasure to be around, despite what he had said about his bad moods, so Sherlock could excuse himself for finding some enjoyment in being in such company. But the freedom of leaving this town and finding a new life was what compelled Sherlock.

That was what he told himself, at any rate, as he tried hard not to think about the fact that soon, he would be sleeping in the same enclosed space as a certain handsome king.

When he reached the convoy, Sherlock saw that many people were equipping their horses and entering their caravans. The servant hardly cared about them, but instead approached the first caravan. King John was indeed already there, attaching the horse to the caravan himself.

Sherlock placed his heavy bag down on the ground. “Do you need any help, sir?”

“I don’t need any help. Oh, but that bag is heavy, isn’t it?”

Before Sherlock could object, as a lowly servant ought to when his master offered any kind of assistance, King John was picking up Sherlock’s bag and bringing it into the caravan. He did so with such ease that Sherlock wondered if it was actually the same bag, or if it had not somehow been magically replaced with an identical but lighter piece of luggage.

It would have been nice if the king had not accomplished the task so swiftly, or else Sherlock might have been able to better watch how the fine fabric of the king’s tunic clung to the powerful bulges of his arms as he seized and carried the heavy weight.

“Is that all you’ll be bringing with you, Sherlock?”

“Yes, sir.” Sherlock hoped that the king didn’t judge him too severely for not having many fine things to bring.

“Very well.” Fortunately, the king did not seem bothered. He placed the bag with Sherlock’s belongings in one of the cabinets. “We’ll be departing soon. I hope you’re ready.”

“I am, sir.” Filled with excitement for the voyage they were about to set off on, Sherlock eagerly took his place on the driver’s bench, though not knowing how to direct a horse, he did not grab the reins. “Oh, um, did you want me to drive, sir? I’m afraid I don’t know how. I’m sorry.”

“No, Sherlock, you just sit there. I’ll be driving. I’ve driven more horses than this at a time.”

The king said this with a casual air, but such a thing was astonishing to Sherlock. He pictured the grand king driving chariots with armoured horses into the fray of battle.

“In any case, we’ll be on the road for a long while, and there will be plenty of time for you to learn. I’ll teach you how to do it.”

Sherlock nodded, though he did so a bit uneasily. The idea of directing that spirited animal was more than a little frightening to Sherlock. He would much rather let King John steer the beast. Nonetheless, he did not want to fail his master, and it would surely be a failure on his part if the king had to drive the caravan for the entire journey.

“It looks like we’re finally leaving,” King John remarked, watching the last of the merchants finish their preparations. “We will see many places by the time we reach my kingdom. I have to admit that none of it will be new to me, but I suppose you will see many new things.”

Sherlock wasn’t looking back at the merchants. He was looking forward at the road ahead, to the world outside of the only place he had ever known. Once they had left the town, they would be in a land that was completely unknown to Sherlock. He would only have King John’s guidance to rely upon.

Sherlock was so excited that he could hardly sit still, and nervous as well. He didn’t want to seem entirely unsophisticated to the experienced king, so even though he struggled with these emotions, he tried to appear calm.

“I, um, I’m sure it will be an interesting journey,” Sherlock said.

“The world is an interesting place,” King John replied quietly, thoughtfully. Sherlock wasn’t sure if the king was speaking to the servant, or more to himself. “Be careful, though. It can be a lonely place, too.”

Sherlock recognized it instantly, that melancholy that he sometimes observed in King John. Something had caused King John to be sad again. The urge rose within the servant to ask what the matter was, but he was only a servant, and asking about what was undoubtedly a personal matter would be inappropriate.

He tried to figure out what might have upset King John. It was a difficult problem. King John had said the world could be lonely, but it was unfathomable that such a handsome and courteous king would ever be unable to find charming company.

The town Sherlock had known all his life was now fading in the distance; there were many noises from the motion of the caravans and horses; the future beckoned with its mysteries and adventures. But at that moment, Sherlock’s attention was fixed on the king, who led the entire convoy with authority even as he was plagued by some secret grief that he carried on his own.

~~

It was always King John who decided where their convoy stopped to rest. Such stops were inevitable on any journey. Horses needed rest, and though provisions had been brought, it was sometimes necessary for food and water to be hunted or collected. In the evenings, the caravans would gather and establish a campsite, with many people starting fires with which they could cook.

At one such campsite, early in the voyage, Sherlock caught himself staring at how the light flickered across King John’s face. The king was again in one of his grim moods. He seemed to be watching the dance of the flames, with a distracted sort of air.

Sherlock felt a touch of pride for lighting the fire himself, by striking flint and steel. Now he liked to think that, through it, he was somehow reaching out to try to warm the majestic king.

“I’m turning in for the night,” the king muttered, solemnly.

Of course. Neither Sherlock’s fire nor his company could be enough for the king. “Do you need help with anything, sir?”

“No, I’ll be fine.” King John stood up. His eyes drifted to the stars that were beginning to emerge in the sky. “The stars are pretty, aren’t they?”

Sherlock followed the king’s attention upward. The sky was not yet full of stars, but there were enough to admire. To Sherlock, those distant lights seemed to glitter more when the king was looking at them. “Yes, sir,” the servant answered.

“So pretty, yet so far away,” the king continued. “Sometimes I wonder what could be harder than looking at something so pretty and yet not being able to touch it.”

Sherlock was bothered by the sadness in King John’s tone, and he wished to do what he could to help. “It is pleasant at least to admire them, isn’t it, sir?”

The king lowered his gaze, to where Sherlock sat. “I suppose so.” His eyes didn’t stay long on Sherlock, though, instead wandering back to the fire, to that unknown sadness that seemed to haunt him. “Good night, Sherlock.”

“Thank you, sir,” Sherlock said. It was really too generous of King John to speak so kindly to his servant, especially when he was preoccupied by some trouble of his own. “Good night, sir.”

King John left to return to the royal caravan.

Sherlock thought that perhaps the king wanted some time to himself. He hadn’t directed Sherlock to follow him, after all. Unfortunately, sitting outside became so much less pleasant with his master gone. The stars seemed to become duller, and the air became colder. The fire was not as fascinating as it had been before. The other members of their convoy, who sat around their own fires and talked of nothing interesting, seemed more remote, somehow.

It abruptly occurred to Sherlock that he was truly alone out here. He did not know any of those merchants or nobles who were with them. They might not care at all if a mere servant came to any harm. Sherlock could see that they had camped in a large clearing, but he did not know where that clearing was, or if any towns were close by, or what could be lurking in the woods beyond the clearing.

The world was much too frightening a place without King John. He did not want to impose on King John’s time to himself, but Sherlock could not bear to be alone outside any longer. Shivering from more than cold, Sherlock lit a candle of beeswax in the flames, and then put out the fire, watching his steps under the light of the candle as he returned to the caravan. He tried to be unobtrusive as he quietly opened the door and stepped into the vehicle, closing the door behind him as he entered.

Inside the royal caravan, the king was removing his shirt, baring his toned, broad chest and arms. The dim light of the candle revealed hair on the king’s chest that appeared to Sherlock to go well with the brown stubble on the man’s handsome face. It was a mystery whether or not the hair all over King John’s body would feel equally rough; Sherlock envied any person who ever had the chance to find out.

A musky, intoxicating scent that must have been trapped under royal clothes seemed to fill the caravan, filling Sherlock with a deep, powerful need to make that scent part of himself.

Shocked and overwhelmed, Sherlock whined. It was a high-pitched, disgraceful sound. He hadn’t meant to do it, and he blushed with humiliation when the king turned in his direction.

“Are you all right, Sherlock?”

“A-Absolutely,” the servant stammered.

“Are you sure? You came in awfully fast.”

“I, um, I wanted to help you get ready for bed, sir.”

“Oh. Well, all right. Help me with my boots.”

After placing the candle carefully on the table, Sherlock dutifully knelt to remove the king’s boots, trying very hard not to think about how close he was to King John’s solid chest and powerful arms. There was something comforting about the king’s scent, though it also excited Sherlock more than he could explain.

As distracted as he was, it took longer than it should have for the servant to undo the clasps of the king’s boots, which were admirably rugged and robust, just like their wearer. To make matters worse, the boots were distracting in their own right. They were very different from the pair Sherlock was wearing, which were worn with use and tied with cheap lace.

“Sherlock?”

Irritated with himself for letting his feelings deter him from being the perfect servant for the king, Sherlock continued removing the boots as he answered. “Yes, sir?”

“Is there another reason you came in here so quickly?”

Fortunately, Sherlock found the concentration needed to remove the first boot. He set to work on the second one. He didn’t want to answer the question.

“Sherlock.”

A hand tilted Sherlock’s head up. It was a gentle movement, but being guided to look up at his king, who was holding his sleepwear in one arm yet was otherwise no more dressed than he had been before, made Sherlock’s heart pound. He wanted to look at King John for hours. However, his master was expecting a response.

“I was scared, sir,” Sherlock whispered, barely able to say even that much.

“Scared?” King John asked, his voice soft, though his eyes demanded answers nonetheless. “Of what?”

“Nothing in particular, sir. I’ve never been outside the town before, and everything is unfamiliar to me. It was scary, being out there on my own.” He dutifully removed the second sturdy boot, placing the pair neatly to the side. “It feels safer to be with you, sir.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” said King John, with sympathy. “You’re trembling.”

Sherlock hadn’t realized that he was doing so, but he felt now that King John’s fingers, still gently touching his chin, felt remarkably still compared to his own body, which shuddered helplessly.

“You’re still scared?”

For many reasons, Sherlock was frightened. No matter how curious he was about the world around him, he was scared of all that he did not know, and he was terrified of his own bizarre, powerful feelings when he was around this man. It did not seem appropriate to mention the latter, though. “I’m sorry, sir. I will try to be brave.”

“It’s all right, Sherlock. You’re safe here. Everything will be all right. Go on, dress for bed, now.”

With a nod, Sherlock obeyed, grateful for the king’s command, which provided the nervous servant with some direction. It was generous of his master to overlook his servant’s foolish worries, which must have seemed like the pitiable fears of a child to the experienced, fearless king.

By the time Sherlock had finished changing for bed, into his sleeping gown and bonnet, his master had changed into a loose shirt and trousers. It brought mixed feelings to Sherlock to see that the king’s chest was mostly covered—the servant was relieved that the handsome sight no longer taunted him, but he missed it sorely—yet the collar of the king’s shirt was a low one, so that Sherlock could still see some of the hair on his chest. Another notable aspect of the shirt was that it had no sleeves.

Out of courtesy, the servant tried not to stare, but he so badly wanted to know the feel of those arms. Such knowledge would always be forever beyond the servant. He would have to lie by himself on the sofa, at a respectful distance from his master.

“Blow out the light, Sherlock,” the king said, “and then come sit with me.”

Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat. “On your bed, sir?”

“Yes, if that’s all right with you? I don’t want you to be scared. You may sleep with me tonight. My bed is large enough.”

Sherlock was shocked. He hardly knew what to do. The king’s offer was too wonderful to be believed.

King John approached him. “You’re trembling again! You’re still scared, aren’t you?” He took one of the servant’s hands. “Trust me, Sherlock. I’ll take care of you. You’ll sleep soundly with me. Would you like that?”

It was beyond Sherlock’s capabilities to speak at that moment. His desperate need for anything that the king could offer him gave him the strength to nod.

The king smiled, and then blew out the candle, drawing the world into nearly absolute darkness. He guided Sherlock to the built-in bed at the rear of the caravan. It was lovely when the king sat down on the bed with Sherlock, and it was almost unreal when the king guided Sherlock to lie down there.

“It’s all right, Sherlock. I’m here,” the king murmured, lying down behind Sherlock, wrapping a warm arm around him. “I don’t usually do things like this. I’ve never held a servant like this before. But, you looked so scared. Do you feel safe now?”

This bed felt very good to the servant, who was trying to memorize how the king’s arm felt around him. “I… I like this, sir, but… aren’t you worried about what might be out there?”

“I’m not worried.” The king held Sherlock closer, such that the servant felt his master’s chest against his back. Sherlock could not recall a time when he had felt more warm or cared for than this. “I can take down anything that’s out there. My sword is here, and my bow and arrows, too. I’ll use them if I have to. I’ll protect my precious servant.”

Charmed and flattered, Sherlock giggled. At once, he tried to muffle himself against the pillow.

This seemed to only encourage the king. “I’ll keep you safe, Sherlock. You’re so gentle. I saw that right away about you. It’s not something I often see in people. But I know you’re a gentle soul, and I’ll protect you. Besides, there’s a reason we’re in a convoy. Merchants often travel this way. There’s safety in numbers. So you don’t have to be scared, all right?”

The king’s steady, mellow voice was soothing to Sherlock. “Thank you, sir.”

“You don’t have to be afraid of the others in the convoy, either. I know many of those with us.” This seemed logical, though Sherlock had not entirely expected it, as the king seemed to spend little time with the occupants of the other caravans. “In any case, if they don’t help you if and when you need it, Sherlock, they’ll have to answer to me.” The king’s voice dropped to a lower register. “That’s something they don’t want.”

There was a bewildering burst of joy in Sherlock, to be so well looked after by his strong master.

The king lightly rubbed along Sherlock’s chest, over his gown, which was probably meant to comfort Sherlock, and while it was comforting, the motion made Sherlock feel strangely warm.

Sherlock heard King John sigh.

“You were so excited about this journey,” his master said. “Do you regret it already?”

The remorse in the king’s tone prompted Sherlock to quickly object. “No, sir. It may be scary at times, but that is only when I am not with you.” He hoped he wasn’t being presumptuous by saying these words. To be safe, he did not allow them to linger in the air. “This is an exciting adventure, sir. I’m only sorry that I require such coddling.”

“Oh, don’t be sorry. Actually, I envy you, Sherlock. Everything is new to you. It can be frightening, of course, but the journey can also be exciting to you. I can’t say the same for myself. Not anymore.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, sir.” Sherlock longed to know what sort of things bothered the king. “If I may ask, you said something like that at the tournament, sir? You didn’t find it exciting. But, um, you don’t need to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“It’s all right. Well, it’s true that I didn’t get what I wanted out of the tournament. To be honest, it’s a relief to be away from that place. I’ve got nothing against your town, Sherlock, but the tournament…. I’d hoped to find some excitement in the tournament. I used to love doing things like that. It’s just not enough, now. It’s not what I really want. I suppose I knew that already.”

Sherlock was thrilled that the king would tell him so much, yet he needed to know more. “What is it that you want, sir? Um, if I might be so bold as to ask.”

“Something I lost my chance at. To me, Sherlock, loving a person is the most exciting thing in the world.” To hear the charming king speak of love, while being held by him in a comforting manner, was both sweet and tortuous. “I’m officially married, but my wife and I are estranged." Again, conflicting feelings filled the servant. “Have been for many years. We live entirely apart, separated in all but name. We were never able to conceive, and so I don’t have the rightful heir I need to ensure that my kingdom will survive after me. But that was not the only issue in our marriage; there were problems between us other than that, too. Maybe I didn’t treat her right. I don’t know. All I know is that I lost my chance for a truly exciting life.”

“I think you’ll find another chance, sir. You are a fine-looking, magnanimous king. Any noble lady would be very lucky to earn your affection.” Sherlock did not think it was too inappropriate for him to praise his master in such a way, as no doubt the king received such praise very often.

His king had become quiet suddenly, but that was not peculiar. The hour was late, and no doubt King John was becoming very tired. His fatigue must have been compounded by the chore of soothing his meek servant’s pathetic fears with talk.

The servant moved further back against the king’s chest, wanting to be as close to his master as possible. “Thank you for this, sir. I’m feeling much better.”

“Sherlock…”

Sherlock held onto the king’s warm hand. “I never imagined I would have such a kind master, sir.”

“Sherlock, I’m sorry. I don’t think I can let you stay in this bed.”

A cold feeling gripped Sherlock. “Have I done something wrong, sir?”

“No, I have. I should have known that I…” The king started moving away from him. “I have a man’s needs.”

“Sir?” Sherlock uttered, not comprehending his master’s meaning.

“It has been a long time since I have shared a bed with anyone. I thought that I could master myself, but…”

“Oh.” Abruptly, the heat that had been building in Sherlock intensified tenfold. The feelings he had tried to quell hit him like a gust of wind. It was urgent that he stay in this bed. “I could help you with that, sir,” he said, driven to the improper words by the precipitous force of his need for his king.

“What?”

Sherlock tried to carry on, despite the disbelief in his master’s voice. “I’m sure I don’t compare to any other charming person who would be suitable for you, but I am here to serve you, sir.” He tried frantically to think of a way to convince King John to allow this. “I’m only your servant. It wouldn’t have to mean anything.”

“No, Sherlock.” King John said this forcefully, yet his touch was not too forceful as he pushed Sherlock out of the bed. “You are generous to make the offer. But I do not need you to serve me in that way. You do not owe me anything of the kind.”

“But I—”

“I won’t use you that way. Like I said, I’m here to protect you. Go to sleep, Sherlock.”

King John’s command left no room for argument.

In the dark, Sherlock felt his way back to the sofa, and lied down, hoping he had not bothered his master too greatly. He had been foolish, making such an offer to the king, when undoubtedly the king had his pick of much finer bedmates.

It took a very long time for Sherlock to fall asleep after that. His body and heart wanted other things, and his mind worked relentlessly to find some way to make himself suitable for his master. Sherlock wondered if it took a long time for the king to fall asleep, too, though probably, being near no better muse than Sherlock, the king was able to quickly forget about the passing desire that had undoubtedly come about merely from prolonged physical contact.

But still, Sherlock’s body took an age to relax, and the servant’s mind worked. The king had mentioned that he hadn’t had a child with his wife—was that it? Would a partner be worthy if they provided the king with a child?


	3. The Library

Sitting on the sofa, Sherlock eyed his reflection in the mirror he held in his hand. He was brushing his unruly hair, which he could never manage to tame. The dark curls seemed to rebel at any effort Sherlock made to make himself debonair. His hair was always too long, too curly, and simply too unrefined, as the servant himself was.

Looking directly at his mirror image, Sherlock saw the colour of his skin, which was always too white, no matter how much time he spent outside. The contrast against his dark hair made his skin look even whiter. His fair complexion made him look delicate, and fragile. This was, again, sadly indicative of Sherlock himself.

Where the king had robust, manly stubble, Sherlock’s face was smooth. Most of Sherlock was smooth; he preferred to be as clean-shaven as possible, even if this had sometimes earned him mockery from peers. Rough hair hardly suited his thin body, certainly much less than it suited the broad, rugged physique of King John.

Considering how thoroughly unappealing he was, Sherlock saw that it was no wonder that his master had rejected the service he had offered the previous night.

It had been a ridiculous thing for the servant to do in any case. Even if he were a little bit appealing to the unattainable king, Sherlock would have hardly known what to do to satisfy his master. He had no experience of doing anything physically intimate with another person.

The king deserved a beautiful, alluring, skilled lover, and Sherlock was certain that he did not come close to that description.

“You might want to come out here, Sherlock,” the king called from where he was driving the caravan. “We’re coming up on our first town since we left yours.”

Sherlock moved to the front of the caravan, eager to see an unfamiliar new town, and grateful for the opportunity to sit next to the king, who seemed to have kindly forgiven the servant’s outrageous behaviour the night before.

There were tracts of farmland all around them, with the fields leading to a quiet village in the distance. The town seemed smaller than the one Sherlock had known, though it had one very remarkable feature. A large structure, towering in height above all the other buildings, could easily be spotted rising from the centre of town.

“What is that?” asked Sherlock, pointing at the impressive structure.

“That’s a library.”

“There was a library in my town, by the church,” Sherlock said, “but it was not nearly so large.”

“I don’t know of any libraries that are half as big as this one. It’s a point of pride for this town,” the king explained. “There are legends of how the library started, but all I know for sure is that it’s very important to the people living here.”

Sherlock admired the tall, distant building, awed by the first true landmark on this adventure. There must be an incredible number of books, filled with wisdom on many different subjects, within that grand library. It astonished Sherlock to imagine all the secret knowledge that must be kept in such a place.

“That’s a good look on you, Sherlock.”

“Hmm?”

“Well, the look on your face just now. I hope I get to see you look at many things with such awe.” The king turned his attention back to the horse, and the road. “It’s good to travel with someone who can appreciate the wonders of the world.”

“Ah, well, thank you, sir.” Sherlock felt his cheeks burn from the king’s polite flattery.

The king turned back to him. “Oh, that’s a nice look on you, too,” he said softly.

Sherlock’s cheeked burned even hotter. His master really was too kind.

It did not take them much longer to reach the village. The convoy was cheerfully welcomed, particularly after many members of the group purchased goods and rented accommodations for their stay, which would be a couple of days. For a few of them, the library was their final destination, though some newcomers wished to join the convoy from this point, and required time to prepare. For the most part, their group remained unchanged, and only wished to enjoy the advantages of the town’s marketplace and great library before their journey continued.

As soon as the best rooms that this village had to offer had been acquired for King John to use for the duration of their stay, the king brought his servant to the grand library. The beauty of the building up close left Sherlock speechless. Majestic columns marked the imposing entrance, and inside, hallways seemed to stretch on for miles, with rows of books filling each wall. It was evident from the wide variety of dress and appearance of the people in the library that scholars and wanderers came from many different parts of the world to visit this trove of knowledge.

The king led their way into the library, with his dutiful servant obediently following and regarding the shelves of books with veneration as they went. When they reached the lower levels of the structure, King John stopped to ask Sherlock a question. “Is there any book in particular you’d like to read, Sherlock? I can help you find it.”

Again, the king’s kindness made Sherlock blush. “Oh, um, no, sir.”

“Are you sure? You seem to admire the books a great deal. Surely you’d like to actually read some of them?”

“Well, um, not really, sir.”

King John studied the servant for a moment, probably wondering why Sherlock was acting so nervous. He marched over to the closest books, and pulled one at random. “Chemistry. Does that sound interesting to you, Sherlock?”

“Chemistry, sir?”

“Oh, it means the study of how certain materials differ from other materials, and how they interact with each other. Like how you mix different things together when you cook, for example, and why things change when you heat them.”

“Oh.” That did sound very interesting to Sherlock, who was often curious about how things worked.

“Would you like to read this one?”

Sherlock swallowed. He looked down at his feet.

“Sherlock?”

“I can’t read, sir.”

This admission left King John silent.

Sherlock was terrified that he had disappointed his master. “I’m sorry, sir. A servant of a king should be able to read. I understand some simple things,” Sherlock added, trying to make up for his deficiency. “Enough to get by. I can recognize some of the words on signs, and I can sign my name. But I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to read a book like that.”

“It’s all right, Sherlock. It was insensitive of me to assume that you could read.” The king turned the tome in his hands around, perhaps more aware than he had been before of his power to understand it. “I can read it to you.”

“You don’t have to do anything like that, sir,” Sherlock said, mortified that his master would need to perform such a menial task for a servant.

“I want to,” King John declared, “if it would bring that look of awe to your face, again.”

Try as he might not to, Sherlock blushed, deeper than before.

“And that look, too,” the king added, smiling.

Sherlock wondered if he would ever be able to stop himself from blushing when his master was so kind to him, especially when the king smiled at him like that. King John led him away then, to a comfortable area where they could read the book without disturbing others. It was a courtesy that was probably not necessary of someone as prestigious as King John, but he was perpetually a chivalrous man.

It was fascinating to listen to what King John read aloud, a passage about the fermentation of ale, yet it was sometimes difficult to pay attention and not simply bathe in that luxurious voice. King John had a forthright manner of speaking, as if he had never been denied anything in his life—which seemed to Sherlock to be quite likely—though there was a tender quality to it as well, which was evidence of his trustworthy, kind-hearted nature.

At that moment, Sherlock decided that he would provide this great man with an heir.

He had no idea how to accomplish such a thing, but he had to. Someone who could give the king an heir would be useful to him, and if Sherlock was useful, then perhaps the king would always keep him. The servant could not bear any separation from this noble figure, who was so generously reading aloud for him, wasting a regal, stately tone on unworthy ears.

They spent a long time in the library together, but King John eventually had to leave, as the town mayor wished to speak with him, and Sherlock was left with the rest of the day to himself. The king told Sherlock that he was free to explore the library and to ask for any assistance he might need from the library keepers. He assured Sherlock that they would be happy to assist the personal servant of a king.

Once the king had left to see to his business with the mayor, Sherlock knew that he would not be asking any of the library keepers for help. He feared that they would think he was a lowly, inept servant who could not possibly be fit to serve a splendid individual like King John. They would be right, but Sherlock still preferred not to be judged that way by strangers.

Thus unwilling to ask for help, he could do little but study the illustrations in some of the books and catch one or two familiar words in a mess of incomprehensible letters. He found a book with drawings of human bodies, and wished terribly that he could read, just in case the book held some secret of biology that would allow him to give a baby to his king.

How glorious it would be, to bear King John’s child. Sherlock shuddered from pleasure at the thought, helpless to the elation he felt when he thought of serving his master in such a way. He did not know how a male like himself could perform that duty, but all the same, he found himself contemplating what it would feel like, if he were perhaps made differently, to be filled with the king’s seed. It singed his nerves to think of his master somehow using him, if only as an obedient maid who would carry the fruit of his loins, who would nurture the king’s royal essence so that it would grow into a strong and healthy heir.

Sherlock ached with his need to satisfy every desire of the king. Never before had he felt so empty. The servant placed a hand over his belly, wondering what it would be like to grow large with King John’s rightful successor, to give the king what he wanted.

Growing distraught over all the ways he could not serve his master, Sherlock shook his head. Even if he were physically capable of satisfying any of the king’s desires, his master would never want him so intimately. It was not worth contemplating any of this; the servant was only tormenting himself with what he could never have.

He wandered throughout the library, trying to occupy his mind with other things. Again, he wished that he could read the books, so that he might have some other subject to think about. It would have been a pleasure to read more about chemistry, or some other interesting subject, such as music. Unfortunately, the language of those books was too complicated for him to decipher.

At last, some of the books drew his interest, on account of their bright covers. He opened them, and saw that the books in this area were well illustrated, and were written with very simple language. He could tell from the drawings, which portrayed gallant knights, beautiful nobles, and fantastic animals, that these were fairy tales, probably intended for the children of the educated classes.

Sherlock was delighted that he was able to read some of these books. It was true that he did not know every single word, but he generally understood their meaning, especially with the aid of the illustrations.

The most fascinating book in the section was a collection of fairy tales. The object seemed to have been built on a theme of family, as many of the stories were about parents and their children. After reading one or two of the stories, Sherlock was certain that each had a moral lesson. He believed that some were meant for the children, to be loyal and respectful, though he also observed that there were lessons to be learned by parents, to be understanding and open-minded.

He stared for a while at one of the drawings, of a strong, dependable father and a gentle, encouraging mother, who were guiding their children through the woods.

Sherlock asked himself, could he be like the mother in this story?

Well, why not? This story was a fairy tale. Sherlock could be part of a fairy tale, too. Maybe there really was magic in the world, which he could use to give a baby to King John. Or possibly, there was some secret of science out there, which would help him in that duty. He could pray for a baby, something he had seen some women do. Somehow, he would find a way.

He perceived that the sky was growing darker outside. It was time for him to return to the elegant inn used by the richest members of their convoy, where King John was staying. Sherlock would not be sleeping there, of course, as he was to stay with the other servants in modest accommodations more appropriate for someone of his position, but it was Sherlock’s duty to make sure that King John had everything he needed for the night.

When Sherlock arrived, his master was already there, and dressed in the comfortable-looking clothes he wore when he slept. With his straight posture and confident shoulders, the king was a good match to the fine room around him. It was a large space, and housed impressive furniture, including an elegant wardrobe, cushioned chairs, and a bed with a purple canopy.

“Your Majesty,” Sherlock began, bowing his head in greeting, “how was your meeting with the mayor?”

“It was fine, but not nearly as interesting as spending the day with you in the library would have been.”

Oh, how unbelievably sympathetic his master was! And how handsome too, with that smile of his, and that chest hair that made such a teasing sight from under the collar of the king’s shirt. The servant’s courage failed him entirely. His tenuous plans slipped away from his grasp. How could he dare to think that he could satisfy this capable, competent man in any way?

“I will return in the morning to see to any needs you may have,” Sherlock stated dutifully, wishing to any powers that would hear him that he truly could see to King John’s needs. If nothing else, he could look forward to serving his master as an obedient maid, who would clean this room as well as it had ever been cleaned. “Sleep well, sir,” he said sincerely, doing his best to keep most of the immoral fondness he felt for the king out of his words of parting.

“Sleep well, Sherlock,” his chivalrous master said in return.

~~

Sherlock could not sleep. It was impossible to sleep when there was palpable emptiness inside him. All he could think about was King John, the handsome man who had conquered his opponents in the tournament, the gallant man who had been incredibly generous to his servant.

King John had assured Sherlock’s comfort and safety in the modest room that he was sharing with another servant, but it could not compare to any room that was occupied by the king. Sherlock needed to return to King John. Slowly but surely, his courage had returned, or perhaps what he did have seemed enough when his loneliness had become so intense. It was painful to be apart from his master.

Still wearing the gown and bonnet he had worn to bed, Sherlock found his cloak and satchel in the darkness, and laced up his boots quickly. He quietly slipped out of the inn where he was supposed to stay, and moved silently through the sleepy streets of the town, to the finer rooms where the king was lodged.

He was recognized as the king’s personal servant, and allowed to make his way to the king’s room, which he had already been given a key to. He wasn’t sure what he intended to do when he entered the room. Certainly, he did not want to wake his master. Part of him, he supposed, hoped that the king would still be awake, or would wake up early. Otherwise, Sherlock would sit in one of the chairs for a while, or perhaps sleep on the ground by the bed. Maybe the emptiness he felt would go away, simply from being in his master’s presence.

Carefully, Sherlock opened the door to the king’s quarters. The room was lit by a single candle, which rested on the table between the two chairs. Sherlock was certain the candle had not been lit before. He saw that there was a figure on the bed, facing the other direction. It seemed the blanket was being held, rather than being used as a cover.

“Your Majesty,” Sherlock whispered. “Are you awake?”

“Sherlock?” The figure stirred, and turned towards Sherlock, who had already suspected that the king was awake, due to the candle being lit. Indeed, King John had the face of a wakeful person, not of someone who had been falling asleep. “Come in. Is something wrong? You’re still dressed for bed.”

Sherlock closed the door, and started taking off his boots. It was easier to talk to his boots than to his master. “Nothing is wrong. I… I, um, I couldn’t sleep, sir.”

“Neither could I,” the king said. “But I don’t think you were kept up for the same reason.”

“Oh? What kept you up, sir?”

The king took a deep breath. “Nothing you need to be worried about, Sherlock. Go on, tell me what’s the matter. Was your room uncomfortable?”

“No, sir. It was fine. Thank you. But, well…” His boots were now off completely, as were his socks, but it was easier to continue looking at the floor. “I missed you, sir.”

“Sherlock… Do you mean that you’re scared again? This is a peaceful village.”

“I wasn’t scared this time, sir.” Rising slowly from the ground, Sherlock began removing his cloak and putting his satchel aside. “I wanted to be with you.”

“You might not want that,” his master said. “The thing that’s keeping me up…” Apparently at a loss for words, he moved the blanket away from himself, showing that there was a bulge in his trousers.

“Oh.” At the incredibly intriguing sight, hope filled Sherlock’s chest. Perhaps if King John was frustrated enough by his physical desires, he would settle for something less than he deserved. “A man’s needs, like you said before?”

King John nodded, as sombrely as if he had admitted to having a dreadful illness. “It’s not right for you to be here when I’m like this.”

“It’s keeping you from sleep, sir. I can help you.”

“I told you already, Sherlock, you don’t owe me that.”

“But I do want to help you, sir.” With a deferential manner, Sherlock sat down on the bed, next to King John.

The king immediately tried to cover the lower half of himself with the blanket. “You really don’t have to do that.”

“Sir, I would be pleased to do so. When I said that I missed you, I meant it in many ways.” Sherlock clasped his hands together shyly. “I liked it when you held me in your bed in the caravan, sir.”

“Did you, really?”

Sherlock bravely nodded. “I would, um, I would like to serve you in every way possible, sir. I thought about it while I was in the library, too. I want to give you a child.”

Stunned, the king asked, “What do you mean?”

“You told me that you don’t have an heir. I don’t know exactly how yet, but I will give you a child. I will find a way.” Sherlock closed his eyes, afraid of the judgment he might see in his master’s features. “Even if it means that you must satisfy yourself with me a thousand times, sir,” he murmured, too eagerly.

“Sherlock,” the king said softly. “Oh Sherlock.”

Terrified that this was the sound of disappointment, Sherlock felt as if the world were crushing him. “That was presumptuous of me. I h-hope I haven’t offended you,” he said, his voice starting to break from remorse. “I would be grateful if you would allow me to remain your maid, sir.”

“Relax, Sherlock.” The king touched the servant’s shoulders, and then guided him back, to lie down on the bed. “It’s all right.”

Full of wonder and renewed hope, Sherlock mumbled, “S-Sir?”

The king’s hands tenderly glided up Sherlock’s face, and removed the servant’s bonnet. “You’re so beautiful.”

Dumbfounded by this praise, Sherlock tried to fathom how a man of the world could find beauty in this simple servant. “In the dim light, perhaps…”

King John placed the bonnet aside as gently as if it were a piece of treasure. “If only you knew the night I’ve had, Sherlock.” He faced Sherlock again, looking down at the timid servant who now lied on the king’s bed. The king leaned over his servant. “I’ve been kept up with thoughts of you.”

The close proximity, the heat and safety of the king’s body over his, made Sherlock’s breath catch in his throat.

Moving closer to Sherlock’s ear, the king murmured, “I didn’t want you to sleep away from me, and yet, this was a golden opportunity for me. I could get myself off here, on this bed, imagining I had you under me.”

Sherlock gasped, and shuddered when his master kissed him on the neck. He loved the coarse feeling of King John’s stubble abrading his skin.

“I was going to take myself in hand,” his master said, his voice rough and low, “and think about my sweet, innocent servant, who knows so little of the world, who was at the mercy of his master. I brought oil just to put on my hand, but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t put my hand down my trousers and pretend it was you.”

The thought of the king wanting to do such a thing stirred a deep passion in the servant. “Sir…”

“It took so much restraint not to touch you, but I would never do anything you didn’t want.” The king moved back to look directly at Sherlock, who was too shy to hold his master’s gaze. “You never have to do this for me, Sherlock. If you ever want to leave me, you can. There will always be a place for you somewhere, in a different caravan if you like, and there will be lots of opportunities for you in my kingdom. But I hope you will remain my maid at least.”

“I want to be your maid, sir,” Sherlock whispered. He was terrified at the prospect of leaving the king’s employ, for surely, if that did ever happen, it would be because his master tired of him, not because of any wish on Sherlock’s part. “I want to serve you.”

King John leaned away from Sherlock, causing the servant to worry that his master had tired of this absurdity at last, but the king was gone only for a moment. He swiftly returned with a jar that Sherlock had not seen before.

“The oil?” he asked, nervous but thrilled also.

“That’s right.” The king leaned in closer, this time to Sherlock’s other ear. “Can I put this on your hands, Sherlock?”

“What will I do with it, sir?”

“You don’t need to do anything.” The king gave him an understanding smile. “You aren’t experienced in these matters, are you, Sherlock?”

Sherlock flushed with shame. “Um, no, sir.”

The king toyed with Sherlock’s hair again. “Oh, my dear Sherlock,” he said. “You look so nervous.”

Did the king think that Sherlock was not adequate for this duty, because of his inexperience? Panic flooded Sherlock’s system. “I-I can do this, sir! Please, continue! I want you to, please!”

“It’s all right, Sherlock.”

King John started rubbing Sherlock’s hip, which sent pleasant sensations rippling throughout the shy body of the servant. Sherlock groaned at the wonderful feeling, and his head rolled back. A great need was building in the core of his body, but it was strangely calming to feel this need stoked ever hotter by his master’s caresses.

“That’s it. Good, Sherlock. Don’t worry. I will guide you.”

Sherlock felt viscous oil being spread over his palms by the king’s warm hands. The way that his master’s touch so easily took control of his own hands made the contact feel startling intimate. When a steady thumb made circles in one of Sherlock’s palms, the servant couldn’t help another groan.

“Oh, you’re so beautiful, Sherlock.” It was charitable of his king to say such things.

The king started removing his trousers. Sherlock made a keening sound when at last he saw, in the dim light, the ache that had kept his master from restful sleep. It was no wonder, for it looked as thick-bodied and potent as the rest of the king. Sherlock felt a deep, primal pull to do something for this intimate part of King John, and yet he did not know what to do.

With the confidence of an experienced man, the king held Sherlock’s slicked hands firmly in place as he slipped himself into his servant’s grasp.

Sherlock gasped sharply. His master felt irresistibly hot and heavy. There was coarse hair that felt exquisite against Sherlock’s fingers.

“Oh,” the handsome king moaned, rocking himself in Sherlock’s hands, which remained firmly under his master’s control. “Oh, yes. Stay just like that, Sherlock. You’re doing so well.”

Tentatively, Sherlock tried to cup his hands as best he could for King John, though he still needed his master’s direction. He was grateful for the guidance, and for the privilege to see this enticing side of the king.

King John was moaning deeply, and his musky, captivating scent was filling Sherlock’s mind. It would have been fantastic to have the chance to admire the king without his shirt when he was like this, but it was still incredible to see the power of his naked legs and hips. He found his smooth rhythm, making use of Sherlock’s hands with all the self-assurance that came with strength and authority. It was mesmerising to watch and feel this handsome man give in to his urges, so much so that he forgot how truly unsuitable the servant under him was.

Though King John’s eyes were half-lidded, Sherlock could easily see the dominance in the gaze that was holding his own. He was deeply thankful for the indomitable pull of that fixed look, because that force kept Sherlock steady, kept him from worrying if he was good enough, kept his concentration solely on King John.

The back of one of the king’s hands inadvertently met the crotch of Sherlock’s gown, causing the servant to whimper mindlessly.

“Oh, my dear Sherlock….” The king slowed in his rhythm, and his hand repeated its motion against Sherlock’s gown, resulting in another helpless whine from the pining servant. “I’ve been neglecting you.”

The need in Sherlock’s core burned so hot within him that it was almost painful. He ought to have assured his master that seeing to his needs was not necessary, but Sherlock could think of nothing other than how badly he wished for the king to touch him.

His master pulled up Sherlock’s sleeping gown, and then started inching down his servant’s underpants. Bared under the king, Sherlock felt vulnerable and safe at the same time. He was exposed, yet he was exposed to his protector, his valiant king.

“May I?” The question was asked by the lowest, roughest voice Sherlock had ever heard.

“Y-Yes, please, I want it so much…” Sherlock heard himself say these greedy words, and then at last was struck by his selfishness. “But you don’t have to, sir, you don’t… Ohh…”

King John had compelled Sherlock’s hands to open, so that they were now rubbing together. Or, rather, the root of Sherlock’s need was kept still, as were his hands, while King John resumed his rhythm. Sherlock cried out as the king moved back and forth into the servant’s hands. Each thrust sent a ripple through Sherlock that made him shudder and moan with a powerful longing.

“Your M-Majesty!” was the broken cry that came from somewhere, somewhere that seemed so far away. After a moment Sherlock realized that the noise came from himself. It was an embarrassing sound for the servant, who should have been a suave, elegant lover who gratified the king attentively, yet there was little else he could do but cry out as the king made use of him this way.

Among the deeply pleasurable feelings that Sherlock felt, there was a certain sadness. If all he could do was lie back and let the king use the servant’s hands for himself, then Sherlock was certain that he was not worthy to look at the king.

“N-No, eyes on me, Sherlock.” As soon as his eyes had begun to wander, Sherlock was called back to the reassurance of King John’s attention. “Good, Sherlock… Keep your eyes on me…”

The servant felt himself flush at the praise, but thanks to the commanding gaze of his master, which was steady even as the king gave in to the basest part of his nature, Sherlock managed not to turn away in embarrassment. He could hardly look away when doing so would be defying the king’s will.

He could feel his master start to reach his peak. “Sherlock, I’m…” the king warned, though he soon lost his voice to pleasure.

Sherlock could feel each powerful tremor from his royal master, and again, Sherlock heard that seemingly faraway cry for His Majesty. Bliss and gratitude filled the servant as he finished. It was a blessing that the king had been so frustrated that he had settled for this ordinary servant.

For a time, the king held his servant, as they recovered their breath. Undoubtedly the king was not so astonished by what they had done, but Sherlock was so thoroughly overcome that he wondered if he would ever recover.

“Clean us, Sherlock,” the king said, handing him a rag. It was hard to tell, but he seemed calm. Certainly, this had not been as remarkable an occurrence for him as it had been for his inexperienced maid.

“Of course, sir.” Sherlock bashfully but dutifully cleaned them both.

He wondered what King John was feeling—his dear master, who could not have been fully satisfied by someone as unskilled and mundane as Sherlock. He also wondered if he had experienced all that there was to experience, or if there were other ways the king could take his satisfaction from his servant.

“Is this what lovers do together, sir?” he asked, cleaning his king with haste so as not to tease himself with self-centred thoughts of further intimacy than he had been given already.

“Lovers can do many things together,” the king responded. “I did not want to overwhelm you with anything more… complex. But please, rest assured that I enjoyed this very much.”

The king sounded sincere, though he was not looking directly at Sherlock anymore. It seemed that some piece of the king’s confidence had been lost somewhere. Or perhaps he had simply been underwhelmed by what the servant could give him, and did not want to hurt Sherlock’s feelings by saying so.

Sherlock worried that, by being such a nervous and inexpert servant in this matter, he had let his master down. In any case, he wasn’t brave enough to ask about that. At least he was sure that he had helped his king in some small way, and King John seemed reasonably at ease. His master would now be able to find sleep, even if what they had done together had been nothing spectacular for him.

Sherlock blew out the light of the candle, and then lied down next to his master, who, to Sherlock’s surprise and delight, placed a protective arm over the servant. It was agreeable to think that, although he might not cherish the moment as much as Sherlock did, King John might find some contentment in falling asleep next to Sherlock like this.


	4. The Temple

They had left the library and its settlement behind, and were continuing their journey along with the rest of the convoy.

Sherlock was not certain how to act around his master. King John remained as cordial as ever, though his manner was more strained than before. He had spoken little since they had returned to the road. Silently, his shoulders high but his manner subdued, he sat at the driver’s bench, directing the caravan’s horse.

It was devastating to Sherlock. His failure to serve the king’s intimate needs adequately must have been what had left the man despondent. It was probably difficult for the king to be cheerful when Sherlock was such a disappointment. Perhaps he pitied his poor servant, and did not tell him this out of altruism.

Sherlock supposed that he should consider himself fortunate, if it was indeed pity that the king was feeling for him. He could have easily earned his master’s hate for intruding on the king’s privacy and making inappropriate requests.

With a sigh, Sherlock picked up the bow that King John kept in the caravan. It was a long and elegant piece of wood, though it looked odd when it was unstrung, as it generally was when not in use. Without the tension of the string to bend the material, the object looked more like a wooden staff than a bow.

Taking a cloth in hand, Sherlock wiped the wood. It was an honour to clean something belonging to King John, especially an item of this nature. Certainly, this bow had been made by a very skilled craftsman, to be suitable for a king. The object had the privileged role of frequently being held in the king’s capable hands. Truly a useful implement it was, too, as the bow helped the king hunt and protect.

This bow fitted well in King John’s hands, served him expertly, and was perfectly useful; for all these reasons, Sherlock deeply envied the thing. He still cleaned it with care, however, as it was, after all, an item belonging to the master he revered.

The continuous movement of the caravan stopped. Sherlock put away the bow and looked out the front of the caravan.

Sitting up from the driver’s bench, the king appeared to give some signals with his hand to the caravans behind them, and then he turned to Sherlock, though his manner was still distant. “We’re stopping to rest, here. Just for a little while.”

“Very well, sir.”

Sherlock was certain that the king would take the opportunity to step away from the caravan—to get away from his inadequate servant—but the king unexpectedly stepped back into the caravan, closing the door behind himself.

“Do you need something, sir?”

There was not an immediate answer. “It was getting hard to keep driving,” the king said at length, softly, “when all I wanted was to come back in here, and make love to you on the bed.”

Suddenly the caravan felt much smaller and warmer to Sherlock, who was stunned.

King John’s footsteps sounded loud against the wooden floor of the caravan as he stepped closer. “I tried to tell myself,” he said, “that I would be satisfied, that it was enough to have my pretty servant in my bed that one time. By any standard of decency, that one time was one too many.”

The king touched Sherlock’s shoulder, stroking him there, making the servant shudder.

“Sherlock, sit here, please.” Following King John’s direction, Sherlock sat on the built-in sofa. “I need it, Sherlock. It’s consuming me. I need to have you again. Can I see the rapture on your face when you feel pleasure just one more time? Can I hear you scream in passion?”

“Um, yes, sir,” Sherlock murmured, wondering if he was actually asleep, in a fantastic dream.

“Sherlock.” At once, King John closed the door to the caravan, and lifted up Sherlock’s tunic, swiftly getting to work on the fastening of Sherlock’s breeches. “Maybe a second time, a second time will do it…”

Noticing that King John was not undressing himself, Sherlock asked, “Sir, what do you need me to do?”

“Nothing, nothing, only let me know what pleases you best.”

Moving quickly with robust desire, King John sank to his knees in front of Sherlock. He held onto Sherlock’s hips, and took the servant into his mouth.

Sherlock was dazed by the sudden force of heat and pleasure. He shivered from the wonderful feelings that spread through his body. Yet he was aware that the king could not be getting much out of this act.

King John paused for a moment. “Do you like this, Sherlock?”

“Yes, sir, p-please…” More than anything, he wanted to be in King John’s mouth again, in the warmth of the man who took such good care of him. Yet he knew that he could not give King John a child this way. “But I’m… I’m supposed to serve you, sir… To give you everything you need…”

“Right now, this is what I need, Sherlock.” His grip on Sherlock’s hips as secure as ever, King John leaned in again, and once more made it very difficult for Sherlock to think clearly.

It was fortunate that this was such a sturdy, well-built caravan, or else other members of their convoy might have heard the many loud, uncontrolled, nonsensical noises that escaped Sherlock when he was possessed in this manner by his master.

The king cared for him with an almost urgent thoroughness, and all too soon, Sherlock was whispering a warning to the man who was drinking him down. He was astonished when the man continued to drink. Even when the servant lost himself completely, it seemed that the king was determined to let no drop be wasted.

First, King John restored Sherlock’s breeches and, for a splendid moment, held him, comforting him. Soon, however, the king was slipping his hand into his trousers, and touching himself. He continued to hold his enthralled servant as he did so.

“You are so beautiful,” King John told him, “oh, and your voice, Sherlock, your voice is like an angel’s.”

“Sir…” Sherlock said the word with reverence. He watched his master bring himself off. To him, there was not a more fascinating subject in the world.

Breathing roughly, the king muttered, “How did I ever think once could be enough? Oh, forgive me, Sherlock, you looked so lovely on that bed, oh, I never wanted to leave that room in the inn.”

Though he had just been thoroughly satisfied by his master, the servant’s heart hammered away in his chest. “I pleased you, sir?”

“It’s not right, I know it’s not right.” The king groaned. “Damn it, what kind of spell have you cast on me, Sherlock?” Even as he pumped his arm, he looked directly at his servant. “What sort of unearthly creature are you?”

Astonished by the rise in the king’s voice, by the passion in the king’s spirit, Sherlock mumbled shyly, “I’m just your maid, sir.”

At that moment, the king made one final groan, finding his release, against Sherlock, amazing the servant with what a handsome image he made.

However, once he had recovered his breath, the king quickly moved away, and cleaned himself with hurried swiftness.

“Let that be the end of it, once and for all,” the king muttered, letting no emotion show. “We’ll get back on the road now and forget all about this.”

Confused, Sherlock nodded nonetheless. There were many questions he wanted to ask, but he was not sure if any of them were allowed to be asked. “Of course, sir,” he murmured.

It was impossible to tell what the king was thinking as he took the reins of the horse again and led their convoy away. While words spoken in moments of passion were not always truthful, the king seemed to find Sherlock appealing to some extent, which was very gratifying; though it also seemed that he was disappointed in himself for having any kind of feelings for a common servant. Sherlock would not have blamed him. In any case, the intense but brief incident was behind them, and the king seemed eager to disregard it.

Sitting again on the sofa, which felt inexplicably large and empty now, Sherlock wondered what their next destination of note would be, and if he would be able to spend more time with his compelling and fascinating master there. He saw King John take out a map, but Sherlock did not ask about it, as he did not wish to remind his master that he could not read.

As it turned out, their next destination was a temple. When they stood under the cover of the temple’s entrance, the king, ever knowledgeable about the world, explained to Sherlock that the temple had once been devoted to a single deity. In recent times, it had become a place of worship for people of many different faiths. The temple was maintained as a refuge for all peaceful people by a group of monks.

There were many different rooms in the temple. There were discussion rooms, altars, and an enormous hall with colourful stained windows. At the moment, the hall was being used by a chorus of monks, who sang to the accompaniment of the pipe organ.

Sherlock could not resist humming for a short while when they left the chorus, and King John mercifully allowed him to. The servant could have sworn that he even saw a smile on his master’s face, though the king did not hum with him.

It was possible that the king enjoyed music, despite that. Being of a sophisticated class, he probably did, but naturally, he would not discuss music with any seriousness with Sherlock. The music of nobles and the educated, which was refined and sophisticated, and relied on hours of study and expensive instruments, was not meant for people low in status and importance.

Still, people of all stations could hum.

When Sherlock had stopped humming, the king spoke up. “I think I’ve shown you all the points of interest. Oh, I don’t know if you would be interested, but the monks keep bees out back.”

“Bees, sir?” Sherlock thought of the buzzing little creatures, which he had sometimes watched around the flowers in the town he came from. It was odd to think that there were people who could keep those tiny, industrious beings in any capacity.

“Yeah, they support themselves and the temple with beekeeping. Would you like to see it, Sherlock?”

Even if he were not interested in the bees, Sherlock would have been glad to be led anywhere by his master. “Yes, I would, sir.”

The king led Sherlock to a fenced-in area on grass, on the land behind the temple. He learned that the monks collected honey and beeswax from the bees, selling the honey and using the wax to make candles, which the studious and spiritual monks used all around the temple.

It was interesting to watch the activity of bees in their manmade hives, and the king graciously allowed Sherlock to choose some candles, which the king purchased for them to use on their journey.

Sherlock continued to think about the bees long after that. He sat with the king in one of the halls and listened to a discussion between some of the monks, but he hardly caught a word of what was said, engrossed as he was in his musing.

Every bee had its role to perform. That much was obvious from the single-minded, unquestioning way the bees went about their business. The insects seemed to know their place in life. One bee had one role, surely, and another bee had another. Sherlock was reminded of himself, the meagre servant whose role was to serve his master obediently. He thought also of King John, who had a very different role in life, one that could not accommodate a close attachment to the maid who cleaned his caravan.

Would there be chaos in the hive, if a bee deviated from its role? Sherlock was not certain, but he knew there would be consequences. A bee served its purpose, as would Sherlock, and King John. They could not go outside their roles in life.

People in such different roles as theirs were not meant to become meaningful to each other.

Sherlock was lucky that King John desired him. Surely, that was because of King John’s frustration and loneliness, more than any virtue on Sherlock’s part. He could not wish for anything more, however. Hoping for an emotional attachment from his master was truly too unrealistic. The king might be fond of him, perhaps, but kings did not love servants.

It dawned on Sherlock, why the king had not seemed fully satisfied from his intimacy with his servant. He did not care deeply for Sherlock as he would for some cordial, noble lady. Nor should he, if he was to be a fitting king.

It was Sherlock’s own fault, he supposed, for falling in love with his master; and yet, how could he do otherwise, when this man was so valiant and brave, so rugged and handsome?

“What did you think about what the first monk said?” the king asked him.

“Hmm?” Sherlock had not been paying attention, but he didn’t wish to admit to that. “It was interesting, sir.”

King John continued to speak. However, Sherlock was still having trouble paying attention. He had been struck by what the king had asked him.

It was not as if the king had professed any kind of love for his servant, but it was not typical for a man of such authority to ask a servant for his opinion.

~~

There were many flowers around the temple, which was surely appreciated by the bees. It was also appreciated by Sherlock, who was seeing varieties of flowers that he had never before laid eyes on.

He bent his knees to study a pink flower. Its bright colour and soft appearance drew Sherlock’s attention instantly. He reached out to touch it, and took a whiff of its light scent, which gently floated through the fresh air. Drawing the tip of his finger down one of its petals, he hummed with interest.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” the king muttered.

Caught off guard by this remark, Sherlock stepped away from the flower. “I’m sorry, sir?”

King John looked brilliant, standing there surrounded by flowers. The authority of his posture and the ruggedness of his clothes was only emphasized by the bold contrast he made against the delicate flora around him.

There was another, more unfortunate difference between the king and their surroundings. While the flowers seemed vibrant and happy, the king was clearly distressed. His eyes were shut, as if in concentration, and his arms were tightly crossed.

“Is something wrong, sir?”

“You’re so lively, Sherlock. You’re curious about so many things. There’s beautiful energy in you. I could barely stand it. When you were humming to the music of the chorus, you were so enchanting. It took all my willpower not to hold you close like the treasure you are. And then you were so fascinated by the bees! It was too much. And now, I must watch you admire these flowers, and I can do nothing but admire you. There’s nothing wrong with you touching the flowers, but I shouldn’t touch you.”

The remorse in the king’s features was an arresting sight. “Your Majesty…”

“I shouldn’t touch you, Sherlock. Every time I have done it, I’ve known that. It’s wrong, for plenty of reasons. I can’t show affection for a servant. I will someday need to sire an heir. Believe me, I never meant to be selfish. I truly did want to give you an opportunity to find a new life, and it was fantastic to see someone so fascinated with the world. But I thought too highly of myself. I thought I could keep myself from doing anything wrong. I thought I could resist whatever magic it is that you’ve got.”

Though he wanted to give his appreciation for the king’s generous praise, Sherlock was too stunned by the outpouring of the king’s emotions to interrupt.

“The beautiful servant,” the king said, “so unfamiliar with the ways of the world… How could you know it was wrong? How could you know of all the opportunities that wait out there for you beyond me? Oh, but you were so tempting, and I had not the strength to turn you away. My dear Sherlock… My pretty servant…”

He stepped closer to his servant, his solid boots gracing the ground underneath.

“I thought too well of myself,” King John murmured, “if I ever thought I could stop myself from wanting you. Once, twice? It didn’t satisfy me. It made things worse! I only think of you more. I can’t stop thinking of the excitement in your eyes, the gentleness in your hands, the noises of pleasure you make.”

Sherlock was deeply flattered, as well as flustered, and uncertain of what to do when given this kind of attention, especially from King John. He swallowed when the king grasped his wrist. King John was shaking from self-restraint.

“I can’t… Sherlock…”

“What do you need, sir?” Sherlock asked instantly, unable to think of anything but serving his master.

The king shook his head. “God help me…”

“Sir?” Sherlock bowed his head, though he stood steady, emboldened by the sweet words of his king. “Please, sir. If there is any way you want me, then have me.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying. You don’t know how terrible this is of me. You know so little about the world.”

“I know that I want to serve you!”

Sherlock surprised himself with the force of his voice. He immediately bowed his head again with deference, so he did not see what expression might have come over King John’s face.

He did, however, hear the words the king spoke next, in a voice that had sunk where Sherlock’s had risen, and notice that the king wasn’t shaking anymore. “Come with me.”

Moving with ardent resolve, the king led his servant deep into the temple, his grip tender but firm. No monks or worshippers they passed dared to question the king’s urgency, but merely watched in wonder as the noble figure brought his servant into the depths of the sanctuary.

In the lower levels of the building, there were private altars and rooms used for spiritual purposes of all kinds, in days past as well as in the present age. King John brought Sherlock into one room that was far away from any other person, a place that was illuminated by candlelight as much of the temple was but distant from all other noise and activity.

In the middle of the secluded room, there was a giant, raised, circular cushion, with a headboard that curved around half of it. The circular bed had a plush blanket and several large pillows.

Having been brought by his passionate king to this private room, which contained such an indulgent piece of furniture, Sherlock’s imagination ran wild. He blushed intensely.

Continuing to hold Sherlock’s wrist, the king guided his timid, acquiescent servant back onto the bed.

“My pretty servant,” the king murmured. “Your cheeks are such a pretty pink.”

Sherlock looked at his master with wide eyes. “Why have you brought me here, Your Majesty?”

“In ancient times, this room was a place for rituals of ecstasy and madness, where the devout would give in to their deepest passions, to celebrate life, to please their gods, and to take part in what were called fertility rituals.”

He ran his hands through Sherlock’s hair, sending ripples of pleasure through the servant that cascaded down his body. The king leaned closer, trapping his humble servant against the bed.

“I have heard whispers of some of those rituals. They say that, many ages ago, there was once a great monarch who was intoxicated by love for a beautiful woman. She was sweet and gentle, like you.” One of the king’s fingers drifted around Sherlock’s ear, making him shiver with a spike of desire. “Though she was shy, she enchanted the monarch, so much that he claimed her in a haze of passion on a ritual bed.”

King John smoothed over the material of Sherlock’s tunic, no doubt feeling the emotion of Sherlock’s beating heart.

“He made her his own where gods would see, so even they would know that she was his.” He gripped the edge of Sherlock’s tunic, and removed it from the servant’s pliant body. “I never understood how a man could have such feelings, until I met you.”

Sherlock never ceased to be amazed by the king’s feelings. “Did he truly want her?”

“He wanted her passionately.”

Sherlock was wondering if the king truly was remembering a story, or perhaps using this tale to say what could not be confessed with ordinary words, but Sherlock could not concentrate long on the question, not when King John was disrobing him with such sureness and impunity.

Soon, the king started removing his own shirt. Though Sherlock was feverishly eager to see more, he also wanted to hear more. His master’s voice was so striking and reassuring. At last, he concentrated long enough to say something coherent.

“What did he do with her?” he asked.

King John’s shirt was gone. Sherlock saw his broad chest, and the rough hair that the servant had longed to see again. There was an ache within Sherlock. He felt terribly empty.

Taking off his belt, King John took out an item from within a pouch. It was the jar of oil that Sherlock had become acquainted with in the caravan. Excitement pooled in Sherlock’s belly when he spotted it.

The king followed Sherlock’s line of sight. “I know. It’s wicked of me to carry it. Even I don’t know if I’m sustained or tormented by the thoughts of you that it gives me.”

“Sir,” Sherlock said, “what did the monarch do with the woman?”

Affected by Sherlock’s words, perhaps surprised by the earnestness of the repeated question, the now shirtless king placed the jar to the side and again leaned close to Sherlock, bringing a rush of heat to the servant’s cheeks.

“He longed to take her deeply,” he whispered. “He put her on her elbows and knees, and he entered her, again and again.” King John’s musky scent seemed stronger now. “He made his beloved scream with pleasure.”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed, “yes! I want that.”

King John paused for a moment. “Oh, my dear clever Sherlock,” he said affectionately. He undressed Sherlock completely, and then finished disrobing himself.

Though Sherlock was embarrassed to be unclothed under the attractive body of his master, the reverent way in which the king looked at him gave Sherlock the encouragement he needed.

It was a simple task for the king to manoeuvre his willing servant onto his elbows and knees. Sherlock was given a pillow to hold under himself. “This may feel strange, Sherlock, but it will soon feel good.” There was a hand that moved along Sherlock’s rear. The intimate feeling was shocking and wonderful, though it was quickly overshadowed by the sensation of a slicked finger trailing down his backside, to a place he had not thought anyone but himself would ever touch.

Sherlock whimpered.

“You’re so gorgeous, Sherlock.” Tenderly, the king breached his loyal servant.

Again, Sherlock whimpered.

“Is this all right?”

“Y-Yes, yes, sir.”

The king prepared him for a long time, with so much care that even when Sherlock whimpered and tried to push himself back, to take King John’s touch further into himself, his master held him still, and murmured comforting words to him that put him at ease, as much at ease as he could be when he ached to be used by the fine man who had taken his heart.

Thinking of how much more he was soon to be filled brought hot excitement to Sherlock’s spirit, though it was a calming and consoling thought also, that his king would truly use him that way.

Once the sweet, thorough preparation was done, two hands grasped Sherlock’s hips. But then nothing more happened. King John was hesitating.

“Please, sir,” Sherlock begged. It was too cruel, to be denied what he had so eagerly anticipated. “I want you.”

“Oh, I want you so badly, but I shouldn’t do this, Sherlock…”

“I don’t care if it’s wrong!” Sherlock cried, desperate. He sobbed into his pillow and clutched it fiercely. “P-Please, sir! I’m yours! Please!”

“Sherlock,” a low, dangerous voice breathed. “Mine.”

The hands on Sherlock’s hips became tighter, more possessive, and in the next moment, Sherlock felt the splendid heaviness of the magnificent king push into him. The breath was knocked out of Sherlock’s chest, and the servant’s very soul seemed to come alive throughout his body, especially where he was joined with the king.

After sliding into him, King John groaned with pleasure, but held motionless, giving Sherlock the chance to adjust. The possessive hands rubbed soothing circles into Sherlock’s skin. “Sherlock?”

“It is g-good, sir,” Sherlock responded, as lucidly as he could. At last, he was empty no longer. King John was filling him, and it was perfect. Every nerve in Sherlock burned to belong to the king. His spirit pleaded to be his master’s beloved. “Please, m-more, sir.”

“Easy, Sherlock.” Though Sherlock intimately felt the burning need of his master, King John stayed still. He continued to rub circles, which was a strangely relaxing gesture. “There’s no rush.”

Why was the king not moving? Was Sherlock doing something wrong? “I can h-handle it!”

“Don’t worry. It’s all right.” With all the tenderness in the world, the king slowly eased out of Sherlock, and then slid back in.

“Oh, sir,” Sherlock moaned. He loved the feeling of his master deep and hot within him.

“Good, Sherlock.” Once he had resumed, the king took Sherlock in a slow but unrelenting pace.

Overwhelmed by bliss, Sherlock struggled to speak steadily. “Is this w-what he did to her, sir?”

“Hmm?” The king was thrusting a little harder, now.

“Ohh, in your story, s-sir… Is this what the m-monarch did to his beloved?”

With a low, uneven growl, the king answered, “Yes, Sherlock… Exactly like this…”

The lower part of himself was supported by stalwart hands, but Sherlock could hardly support his upper body on his elbows now. He sank onto his thick pillow, enjoying the vitality of his king. “Did… Did the monarch like it, s-sir?”

The king moaned endlessly. “It was p-paradise. He wanted to e-empty himself in her,” he said, as he graced Sherlock with another thrust, “but he never wanted it to end…”

How incredible it would be, Sherlock thought with a half-rational mind, for that thick pleasure that King John was driving into him to spill, to empty into the servant; could he then give his master a child? Is that what the lady in the story did for the great monarch? Was it a story of a strong, virile king impregnating his modest, faithful maid?

Sherlock spread his legs wider, gasping and writhing as the king thrust harder against his slim body. He longed to be filled with King John’s seed, so that he might give his master the child he wanted. His soul was filled with prayer, to whatever gods might be watching, that he might be so blessed.

When the king did give a final grunt and spilled himself, he also reached around Sherlock, to help his servant finish. Sherlock was quite simply undone. It was a rapturous moment, as rapturous as all of it had been. The occasion was made all the more precious to Sherlock because he could not expect to be allowed such intimacy with the king very many times, not with a man who was superior to him in every way, for whom he could not perform any duty as well as the king deserved.

It had been a charming fantasy, to think of giving this man a child. But Sherlock knew enough about how things worked to know that there was very little hope of that ever happening, and that the king would inevitably find a better companion to share his bed.

Despite that, King John’s arms soon wrapped securely around Sherlock. The king’s voice was still low, but less urgent than it had been. “My poor, sweet maid. I have been a wretched man.” Sherlock felt the king’s rough stubble on his shoulder, where his master granted him a kiss. “I’ve damned you. How can I think about making you mine, when I can’t promise myself to you?”

These words were hardly a surprise. Sherlock had always known better than to think that he could ever have the king’s heart. He had no claim on any of his master’s tender emotions. The king might someday reunite with his estranged but lawful wife, or he might take a new competent wife, or perhaps an able mistress, someone who could give the king many children. In any case, someone would come along who would fulfil the wants of both the king’s heart and body.

It was the servant’s dream to give the king everything he needed, but what hope did he have? He would be content for as long as he could serve King John in at least this way, to be the loyal maid who gave the king adoration and support, to be the trembling and inexpert but willing and eager body with which the majestic ruler satisfied himself.

“Poor Sherlock,” the king muttered, “It is not fair to you, for you to give me so much of yourself, when I can give you so little.”

“It is enough for me to be yours, Your Majesty,” Sherlock said, and though his heart was breaking, he meant it.


	5. The Brewery

Sherlock did not want to fail his master. He would do anything to serve King John.

But that did not mean he was eager to drive the big, intimidating horse standing in front of their caravan. He knew that King John was able to direct the large animal, but that said little for Sherlock’s chance of success.

“I’m not sure I should do this,” Sherlock stated meekly, glancing at the reins. He was sitting at the front of the stationary caravan, next to his master.

Their convoy had stopped for a rest, and their caravan was at a distance from the others, so that they had some privacy. That helped ease Sherlock’s nervousness a little bit, but he was still frightened of the horse.

“It’s okay, Sherlock. You don’t need to learn it right away.”

When the king held the reins a bit closer to them both, Sherlock instinctively flinched back.

“Or ever,” King John added, his voice soft with compassion.

He couldn’t let his master down. “No, I would like to be able to do it, someday,” Sherlock pronounced, more confidently than before, though without all the confidence he would have liked to hear in his own voice. Despite being determined to be the best possible servant for King John, Sherlock could not bring himself to hold the reins that would connect him to that great beast, the creature that looked as if it could trample him.

“All I’m saying is that you don’t have to.” The king turned his attention to the horse, which idly toed the ground. “How about I tell you more about horses? Maybe it’ll be less scary if you know more about it.”

Sherlock was almost certain that King John possessed a natural aptitude for controlling the horse that could not be taught, but he didn’t see the harm in trying. “Yes, that might help.”

“Well, there isn’t too much you need to know. Like all the horses I use, this one’s been trained to move where you direct it. The key is to be clear and consistent. That’s an important thing about horses—about animals in general, really. You have to be consistent.”

It was nice to be given some of the wisdom gained from worldly king’s experience. Being a distinguished warrior, King John must have directed many horses in his life. Sherlock couldn’t help but remember his glorious master expertly riding a horse and wielding a lance in the tournament, which seemed so long ago now.

Privately, Sherlock enjoyed thinking of King John as _his_ warrior, the one who protected him and who would fight for him. It was presumptuous of Sherlock to entertain this thought, but the king had indeed said that he would protect Sherlock.

“Sir, if I might ask, did you learn about horses in battle?”

“I’ve got a lot of experience in battle. I’ve handled horses all my life, though.” That was common enough for nobility, Sherlock supposed. “Now, listen, this part is important. When you give a horse a command, it can only have one meaning. Horses don’t really understand words the way we do. They’re not so good at things like tone or context, but they know sounds. So there’s one sound for one purpose. That’s the rule. You can’t say the same thing to tell the horse to stop that you would tell it to slow down. That’s why it’s _whoa_ for stop, and _easy_ means slow down. Don’t mix those two up. Also, you can tell the horse to walk, to trot, or to canter.”

“Those are all different things?” Sherlock asked, bemused. He didn’t see how there could be much of a difference between walking and trotting and such. The king really did know so much about the world, so many curious facts that interested the inexperienced servant.

“Yes, and there’s more than that, depending on how much the horse is taught. The thing is that every walking speed gets a different command, though you really don’t need to know that, since a horse is hardly going to be racing when pulling a caravan. I hope it helps to understand the horse a little more, though?” King John reached forward and patted the creature, which didn’t seem to care all that much.

It was astounding to Sherlock to see someone so casually pet a beast such as that large horse. Sherlock hesitated. “Yes, sir,” he managed. He didn’t want to admit that he continued to fear the horse, so he didn’t say anything more.

King John turned his attention back to Sherlock, and eyed him for a long moment, which made the servant feel self-conscious, though nevertheless, he could not bring himself to say anything. “Oh, Sherlock,” the king murmured. “You look so nervous. You really don’t have to steer the horse. Come here.”

A great feeling of security settled over Sherlock as King John tenderly embraced him. It was an inexcusable failure for him not to drive the caravan, but his spirit was soothed when he was treated with the king’s mercy.

Sherlock let himself sink into the warmth of his king.

“You are a kind man. I am sorry, Your Majesty. You deserve the best possible servant.”

“You don’t need to feel bad about it, Sherlock. I don’t mind driving.”

Leaning his head on the king’s shoulder, Sherlock said quietly, “Thank you, sir.”

The king rubbed Sherlock’s back. It was fortunate that his master was so strong and self-reliant that he could manage with such an insufficient servant.

Sherlock was very much aware that this situation was the height of absurdity. For him to need his master to comfort him like this, for not being able to perform a duty, was laughable. It was evidence of how unsuitable he was for this fine king. Sherlock was doing the wrong thing by not tearing himself away from King John. But then, Sherlock hardly knew what the right thing was. He had never been a very decent servant. Serving people of nobility had always been a complex matter, and being in love with his master made it all the more complicated.

It would be so much better if they lived in a simpler world, Sherlock thought, like that of a horse. He hummed while he was thinking.

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“Oh, um.” Sherlock hadn’t meant to hum, and certainly not to share this silly thought with the king, but for better or worse, King John seemed to be interested in his thoughts. “I was only thinking that I should like to live as a horse.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, sir. For the horse, one thing means another thing, and that’s that, as you said. I envy such a simple existence.”

King John chuckled; Sherlock felt the uplifting vibrations of it against his own body. “Well, Sherlock, it’s not all that simple for horses. They don’t use sounds in a complex way, but their capacity for body language is said to be greater than that of humans. Movements seem to mean a great deal to them. So their world might be complex, just not in the same way that ours is.”

Sherlock huffed in annoyance. “Of course. I should have known. This world never could be a simple one.”

“Why should you want it to be a simple world, Sherlock? I thought you liked how complex everything is. Haven’t you said that all the new and different things you’re seeing on this journey are exciting?”

“Some complexities are interesting, sir.“

“But not all of them?”

It occurred to Sherlock that he was being foolish. Sherlock did not have the strength to push himself away from the paradise of King John’s embrace, but he had the decency to turn his face away at least.

“Sherlock?”

“It’s nothing, sir.”

“Please, Sherlock. Tell me.”

“Sir.” Sherlock sighed. He could not deny his king. “I wish things were not so complex between the two of us. I don’t know how to think of you, or myself. I don’t know if it’s all right for me to be in your arms like this.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “But I enjoy it so much, sir.”

King John was silent. Sherlock knew that his master was wise with the experience of an esteemed king who had seen and done much, but perhaps even he did not know what was right, either.

However, the king did start rubbing Sherlock’s back again, and kissed him on the forehead. It was enough to make Sherlock very happy. He did not know if it was all right for him to enjoy this temporary intimacy with his superior, but surely it could not be harmful simply to appreciate this single moment.

They sat together like that for a long time, before ultimately continuing on their journey, King John at the reins, and his servant leaning on him at his side.

The next town they arrived in was the largest so far, and had a number of notable places that would interest visitors from the convoy. King John offered to take Sherlock to wherever he wished in the entertainment district, though the servant found himself drawn to someplace different.

A single large industrious building had captured Sherlock’s attention. There were many people, mostly women, entering and leaving the warehouse, some of them carrying boxes of supplies or bags of grains.

There was a sign on the building, with letters in combinations that Sherlock did not recognize. He peered uselessly at the words. Somehow, he hoped that he would be able to decipher the sign if he wanted to strongly enough. If he could do that, then he wouldn’t have to embarrass himself by asking his master. Unfortunately, his determination wasn’t enough for him to read the words.

A hand settled on his shoulder.

Sherlock turned to see King John looking at the sign.

“A brewery,” King John said aloud, as if noting the fact to himself.

Sherlock was touched by this kindness. He knew that he ought to thank the tactful king for being so understanding, but he could not find enough courage in himself to say that much.

Instead, he asked, “Why is it so large, then?”

Most breweries were small affairs run from households for additional income. Brewing was an activity in virtually every town, but this was a remarkably sizeable place for a brewery.

Although, the fact that many of the workers seemed to be women was consistent with the place being a brewery, since in Sherlock’s experience, brewing was traditionally the work of women.

“Well, it’s a big town,” the king said, “and there are a lot of people.” Taking just a step in front of Sherlock, King John looked the place up and down. “Come to think of it, I’ve heard of this place. I’ve never been inside, though.”

The building seemed to be in a constant state of activity. Presently, there were some people bringing barrels to the neighbouring building, which had a sign with blessedly familiar words that proclaimed it to be an alehouse.

Facing the brewery, Sherlock asked hopefully, “Do you think they would let me in?”

King John smiled at him. “You want to see a brewery?”

Under the bright benevolence of the king’s smile, Sherlock faltered, though he persevered. “If it’s not too much trouble, sir. What you told me about fermentation from that book in the library was interesting. I’d like to know more about what they do there.”

“So you really are interested,” the king murmured, as if he could hardly believe it. “Look at how excited you are. You’re a marvel, Sherlock.”

Sherlock blushed, shuffling his feet without thinking.

“Let’s go see it, then. They won’t turn me way,” the king, who was dressed like the proud nobleman he was as usual, proclaimed with certainty. “You’ll come in with me, of course.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

The king’s smile grew wider. He looked so happy and handsome that he was almost difficult to look at. “No, thank you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock followed his master into the brewery, where they were soon welcomed. The king secured a tour of sorts; one of the workers led them around, showing them the processes that went into creating different kinds of beer.

Their production was admirably efficient, and there was constant manufacture of the beverages at every stage. It was fascinating to Sherlock. The servant had cooked many times before, but this long and complex set of processes was new and interesting.

He attentively learned what was boiled when, what was mashed, what was roasted, and what herbs were used. He studied the kilns and kettles and barrels. In addition, he studied various ways of warming the drink when it was at last to be consumed. Sherlock had only ever consumed ale cool, but he was shown a pointed copper cup meant for holding in a fire, and even observed a hot poker being used to stir ale to be served.

Thinking fondly of the time when the king read to him in the library, he studied a wooden barrel in which some ale was fermenting. As an affordable and clean drink, ale was widely consumed by many people of all ages and backgrounds. The drink generally contained only enough alcohol to act as a preservative and not to provide any intoxicating effects. Higher-alcohol ales were meant to only be consumed on special occasions.

While ale was widely popular, it was not generally the chosen drink of nobility, who were known to prefer expensive wines. For that reason, Sherlock suspected that King John was not interested in the brewery as much as Sherlock was, even though he walked around with Sherlock in the place. This was just another occasion, then, that the king kindly indulged his servant.

Sometime during their tour, some nobles came by who wished to speak to King John. They had heard of his arrival, and wanted to discuss some important business about the region with him. The king agreed to speak with them. He arranged to meet his servant later, in the alehouse next door.

Sherlock was nervous to be away from the king in an unknown place, but he felt welcome among the women in the brewery, who seemed to appreciate his enthusiasm for the processes they worked with every day. In any case, he had more questions to ask them, and fortunately, they were happy to answer.

Later in the day, Sherlock relocated to the alehouse, where the king had wanted to meet him. As he entered, he noticed that the king was there, though he was still speaking with some of the nobles who had pulled him away earlier.

Coming from the brewery, Sherlock had approached through the back way into the alehouse, so he was able to stay behind a wall there, and listen in on the conversation. He knew that he ought to let the king know that he was there, but he could not resist the opportunity to hear how his master acted with these nobles.

They were discussing trade in the region, though the other nobles sounded far more engrossed in the topic than King John did. In fact, there was a notable apathy in the king’s voice that reminded Sherlock of those times when unhappy moods had come over the king.

Sherlock wished to do something to comfort his master. Ceasing his childish eavesdropping for the time being, he returned to the brewery, where he was generously given a warm mug of ale by one of the brewers. Soon, he was approaching the king with the mug in hand.

“Some ale, sir?” he asked when the king noticed him.

“Yeah, sure.” The king straightened himself and took the mug. “That’s good of you, Sherlock.” As he took the offered item from Sherlock’s hands and met the servant’s gaze, the king’s torpor from a moment ago seemed to dissipate.

That was the moment when one of the nobles that King John had been conversing with, a well-dressed and finely-groomed nobleman, turned towards Sherlock with a coy, shameless smile and a shallow, flirtatious manner.

~~

It hadn’t just been that one individual. With what little demureness he could achieve, Sherlock had immediately distanced himself from the flirtatious noble, but that had not been the end of it. A few other men had given him glances of certain significance, and two offered to buy him a drink.

Sherlock turned them down, being surprised by their attentions, but quickly concluding that these were noblemen with neither good taste nor good intentions.

King John hadn’t seemed very pleased about any of the overtures extended to his servant, either. The king had kept his seat for a while, until the second person offered to procure a drink for Sherlock. Then, he was up from his seat, telling Sherlock to follow him at once.

Sherlock followed, of course, as they left the alehouse, and headed down a street in the town.

“Where are we going, sir?”

“The caravan,” the king answered tersely. He did not explain any further. Sherlock supposed that he had perhaps forgotten something in the caravan, or merely wished to check on it.

When they reached the caravan, the king helped Sherlock into the vehicle, and then directed him to sit on the bed.

Sherlock had once been allowed to lie on this bed with his master for a short period of time, but aside from that occasion, he had seldom sat there, and never slept there. Being careful not to disturb the sheets, he carefully sat down, wondering what it was that the king wanted.

King John sat next to him. He didn’t say anything for a long while. He merely took Sherlock’s hand in his own, and held it with great care.

Sherlock was touched, and eventually, he had to speak up. “Is something bothering you, sir?”

“It’s tearing me up inside,” the king whispered.

The king rarely whispered. When he did, it was a very different sound than that made by Sherlock’s hushed voice. Sherlock’s whispers were timid and docile, but King John’s were stern and forceful. Sherlock often whispered to be as unobtrusive as possible, while the king whispered when he was filled with passion or determination.

“Sherlock,” King John continued in that low, ardent tone, “it made me so angry to watch those people flirt with you.”

It was alarming to see this noble king, a person who was usually calm and composed, so overwrought. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“What? Sherlock, you have absolutely nothing to be sorry for. I’m the one who should be sorry. I’m the reason you turned them all down, right? Because you think you’re supposed to stay unattached for me? That’s not fair. You don’t have any obligation to me. I should’ve told you that in the alehouse, but goodness, I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t do it.”

The king closed his eyes, and took a deep breath, clearly exerting some effort to calm himself.

“I have no right to keep you from other people. Yet I couldn’t bear it when they looked at you like they did. I wanted to take you in my arms and kiss you in front of everyone. I can’t do that, and it pains me like nothing else, Sherlock.”

Opening his eyes, the king regarded Sherlock, and placed a hand under the servant’s chin.

“If only I could show all of them that you are mine,” the king murmured.

The caravan was starting to feel very hot to Sherlock. “Do you mean that, sir?”

“I shouldn’t mean it.” Tilting Sherlock’s head just slightly, the king seemed to hesitate. “It’s not right.”

The king’s face was very close to his own. Sherlock was so thrilled by what might happen that he could hardly breathe. “Do you, um, want to kiss me, sir?”

With a whisper as rough as a mountain’s edge, the king answered, “I crave it, Sherlock.”

Sherlock felt a similar craving in himself for the lips of his magnificent king. He looked at those lips, which were surrounded by the coarse, handsome stubble of the king’s face, and swallowed. “You can kiss me, sir,” he said, with his own humble kind of whisper.

“Oh, Sherlock.” Cradling the back of Sherlock’s head, the king moved in closer, and at last, his lips met Sherlock’s.

The deluge of sensation was more than Sherlock could comprehend. There was the sweetness of the king’s lips, the roughness of his stubble, the sureness of his hands; each distinct feeling assured Sherlock that he was truly kissing King John, the strong and chivalrous warrior-king.

Sherlock was a novice in this area as he was with many things, but that was all right, as his dear master was generous enough to lead the kiss, and he did so with a passion. Whimpering with pleasure, the servant gave into the king completely, letting his jaw move as the king directed.

They eventually had to break for air. The king took to kissing Sherlock repeatedly, which the servant very much enjoyed. “My treasure,” King John murmured, in between kisses, “my own.”

There was nothing Sherlock wanted more than to belong to this great king. How grand it would have been, if King John could have kissed him in that alehouse, in front of everyone who was there. Then everyone would have known that he was King John’s. But he was grateful to have the kisses of King John however he could get them.

After a particularly long and lovely kiss, the king held Sherlock’s hand again. “Be mine, please, Sherlock. It’s wrong of me to ask you to stay devoted to me, but I don’t know what I would do if someone else won your affection.”

Sherlock imagined the king fighting for his servant, defeating all suitors who would dare try to take away what was his. The thought was a very appealing one to Sherlock. “What would you do, sir? If there was perhaps a man who tried to steal me away?”

“God, what I would do! Oh, I have no right to keep with you me.” The king’s grasp on Sherlock’s hand became a bit tighter. “No right at all.”

“I’m your servant, sir.” There was a great desire in Sherlock to kiss his master, but the most he could do on his own was a shy kiss on the man’s cheek. Even that was done lightly and quickly. “Yours alone.”

King John growled; the low, powerful pitch had a profound effect on the servant. He took Sherlock in his arms and kissed him again, deeply. Sherlock moaned, loving every moment of it.

“Let me have you, Sherlock,” the king said against Sherlock’s lips, “let me take you here. I would take you in front of all of them, but this will do. I’ve wanted for so long to have you right here.”

“Y-Yes, sir.” The servant was always eager to serve his master. “This caravan is yours to do with, as I am, sir.”

Making another growl, the king guided Sherlock to lie back on the caravan’s bed. He took to undressing his servant, doing so easily, and requiring little help. Before long, he had removed Sherlock’s breeches and underclothing, leaving the lower part of Sherlock exposed, and all of him quivering with excitement before his master.

King John procured that jar of his, and dipped his hand into it before letting his fingers glide along the inside of Sherlock’s thighs.

The servant shook with a ripple of yearning that seemed to move through his entire body. When the king’s fingers entered him, Sherlock helplessly rocked against the bed.

“Oh, sir,” he moaned, even louder than when they had kissed, and louder still when the king guided his hips to stay in place, so that the king’s fingers could explore.

“You’re so good at this,” the king said softly. “You’re so good at taking my fingers, Sherlock, like you were pulling them in.”

Quickly becoming delirious with pleasant feelings, Sherlock rolled his head around on the bed. “Y-Your Majesty, sir…”

“That’s it, Sherlock. You’re so good. Just like that, just let it happen.”

Sherlock relished the feeling of the king’s fingers freely preparing him, but soon the king was finished, and he took his hand back.

There was some more movement, and then King John made a small grunt. Sherlock tilted up his head, and was given the opportunity to watch King John coat himself with the contents of his jar. It was an entrancing sight. Sherlock’s experience of intimacy was certainly limited, but he could not doubt that his master was a specimen of rare splendour. Surely, he could not look at the king like this, magnificent as he coated his thick length with firm, confident hands, and be surprised that this was a man of power and influence.

King John finished with that task even more quickly, and then pushed Sherlock’s legs up so that his ankles came up nearly to his rear. His fingers continued to glide around with a hint of hesitation, teasing Sherlock without giving him the ultimate satisfaction he needed.

“S-Sir, please, I’m yours.”

“Sherlock,” the king rasped, his eyes having become very dark. “Sherlock…”

He leaned over his servant, and slowly, the king entered him.

Sherlock’s head tilted back as he shouted out his pleasure. He could not deny that his king knew just how to move into him, to make him feel wonderful.

King John groaned. “Oh, I couldn’t ever let you go. I’d sooner strike a man down than let him have you.”

“Sir…”

“I could not bear to let any man take you from me… Oh, my dear Sherlock…”

Sherlock moaned. Witnessing this jealous side of his king, expressed solely for the sake of keeping a servant, made the sensations Sherlock was experiencing even more exquisite.

In the temple, he had been taken by his master from behind, but now he was looking at King John’s face. Sherlock could clearly observe all the authority and desire in those rugged, attractive features.

The king gradually began to thrust, to make Sherlock his own in this caravan where they had spent so much time together.

That thought alone almost undid Sherlock. King John had brought him on this grand journey, the adventure of a lifetime, in this caravan. The king had thoughtfully explained the ways of the wider world to him, and had sometimes given him kind praises. In this caravan, Sherlock had known the joy of the king’s company, of bringing a smile to the gallant face that had seemed so forlorn at the tournament.

This lavish vehicle, this place worthy of dreams, was like an elegant little home for the two of them to share, and now inside of it, King John was joining intimately with Sherlock on the bed, as if they were married.

It was tempting to imagine what it would be like to be married to King John, and certainly, such imaginings only fanned the flames in the servant’s body. Sherlock hardly considered the perks of being royalty; he thought only of the king talking to him sweetly, and kissing Sherlock wherever the king liked. Sherlock might find a way to bear a child for the king, or he might not, but he would be a caring spouse nonetheless, seeing to all his responsibilities so that all ran smoothly in King John’s esteemed household.

He would welcome his husband home in the evening, and he would have the courage to draw the king into the bedroom. He would say all the things he wanted to say but never could as a servant. He would tell his beloved John that he would stay by the glorious man always, and give him strong children, and be an honour to his family.

Oh, how he adored his glorious John, the strong, splendid man who now looked so appealing and who made low, alluring groans as he made love to Sherlock.

“John, John, John!” Sherlock cried, gratified at how the king’s body answered the wants of his own.

Too late, it occurred to Sherlock how inappropriately he had just acted. To cry his king’s name, with a voice thick with lust, without even bothering to add the king’s title, was possibly the least appropriate thing Sherlock could have possibly done.

“Sherlock,” the king whispered.

It was thanks to the distracting situation, or to the king’s mercy, that King John disregarded Sherlock’s lack of suitable respect. Whatever the reason was, Sherlock was extremely grateful that the king overlooked this error and continued to thrust with all the passion of his nature.

Sherlock could not be the king’s spouse, but he would never stop learning how to be a better servant for his master. He would keep the caravan clean, he would make the king’s weapons shine, and he was certain that he could learn to help with the horses in some way, even if he merely cleaned them or fed them. He could learn how to see better to the king’s physical needs, cherishing each lesson of that kind taught to him by the king himself.

He had started this journey, in this caravan, to find a new life for himself, but all he wanted now was a life with this king, this great man. If he could only be with his king as a servant and nothing more, then that was acceptable.

This circumstance was more than acceptable; it was nothing less than dazzling, that King John would have him, in his caravan, in his bed.

It was spectacular when the king laid his hand on Sherlock’s ache, so much that Sherlock could not keep himself from finishing. His master soon followed. It was endless bliss for Sherlock.

In the end, the servant was quick to clean them both, wishing to act on his resolution to be the best possible servant for his master, though after that, there was no hurry for them to rise from the bed.

“By the way, Sherlock,” the king said, in a relaxed register, “you may sleep in this bed with me from now on.”

“I would like that, sir,” Sherlock replied, with absolutely honesty.

“You don’t have to, you know.”

“I know, sir.” Sherlock leaned against the king’s arm, and smiled, with a hint of mischief. “But I wouldn’t want you thinking that I’d run off with another master.”

It was probably somewhat unfair for him to use his king’s newfound jealousy this way, but the desired effect occurred, as the king grunted with agreement and instantly held Sherlock close in his arms. In that wonderful position, Sherlock felt more assured than he ever had before, and he was very comfortable for a very long time.


	6. The Orchard

“You’ll catch me if I fall, won’t you, sir?” The voice calling out from above belonged to Sherlock, who had been struck with the urge to climb a tree in the orchard. Sherlock was often like that; he was excitable and curious about many things, always eager to take on new experiences. However, his distance off the ground must have seemed concerning to him, now that he was actually on the tree.

“Of course I’ll catch you,” John answered. He hardly needed to be reminded to stay close by, and he certainly couldn’t take his eyes off his beautiful servant.

They were in an apple orchard near a village, where their convoy was resting and stocking up on supplies. As soon as they had approached the orchard, Sherlock had been amazed by the apple trees, which he had never seen before. Sherlock studied them attentively, like how a scientist would study an interesting sample.

It hadn’t been enough for Sherlock to merely peer at the trees. He had to touch them, and smell them, and even climb them. This was fine with the king, who got perhaps too much enjoyment out of watching his servant eagerly explore the world.

John had to admit to himself that he also enjoyed the view of Sherlock from the ground. His pretty servant was wearing simple clothes, but these could do little to disguise his ethereal beauty. Sherlock’s pale skin shined elegantly against his dark, curly hair, which bobbed playfully as Sherlock moved around the bark, extending his slender arms to reach branches of the tree.

Though it was not particularly chivalrous of him, he could see well Sherlock’s slim breeches, and the servant’s pert little rump, which was usually hidden from John’s view by the servant’s long tunic. At this moment, John could see how Sherlock’s buttocks moved smoothly as one elegant leg rose after the other. His fingers itched to hold that part of Sherlock, to bring his cherished one close to his chest as he cupped Sherlock’s rear and listened to the longing whine that would escape his servant.

John was certain that he entertained fantasies like this far too often—they’d not diminished over time, as he had once hoped they would, and certainly not after one or two evenings spent with Sherlock—but that guilt wasn’t ever enough to impede his imagination.

“That’s high enough,” John called out, knowing very well that newcomers often climbed trees as high as they could, without considering how they would come back down. “You’re so high. You did very well, Sherlock.”

John fancied that Sherlock was hiding a blush as he leaned closer to the tree. It was a shame not to see the beautiful rosiness that came to Sherlock’s cheeks when he was shy.

“Come back down, Sherlock. There’s more I want to show you.”

Obediently, Sherlock descended the tree, though he was hesitant at first. Again, he asked, “You will catch me if I fall?”

“Absolutely. I’ll help you when you get close, too.”

John was happy to do exactly that, supporting his servant with a firm hand as Sherlock reached the bottom and climbed off the tree.

“You got so far up, Sherlock. That was amazing.”

Ah, there was the pretty pink blush that John had longed to see.

John felt that he could stand right where he was and admire his dear servant all day. “Did you enjoy it?”

“It was interesting, sir,” Sherlock said. “You said there was more you wanted to show me?”

“Yeah. Do you want to see how apple cider is made?”

The eyes of his adorable servant glittered brilliantly. Fervently, Sherlock nodded. “If that’s all right, sir.”

Sherlock’s excitement instilled similar feelings in John. Happily, he escorted Sherlock past the trees where apples were being picked, through the area where these apples were cleaned, to the shed where the fruit was ground into a mash.

He pointed out to Sherlock that the mash was pressed inside a barrel, from which the beverage drained into a jug with a simple label. It was a fairly straightforward process, yet every part of it seemed to fascinate Sherlock.

When Sherlock stared with curiosity at the mash being poured into the barrel and pressed, John found himself fascinated as well. Never before had the production of apple cider been so interesting.

Sherlock certainly made John’s life interesting. It was a novel experience to show a servant the wonders of the world. They had long ceased to be wonders to John, who had seen and done many things in his reign as king, but they became wonders again when Sherlock was next to him, excitedly examining every little thing he was not familiar with.

For John, Sherlock did nothing less than make the world new again.

In times past, the king had thought he wasn’t meant for a happy life. Even before his marriage had shattered, he had never been really content. His queen, a lady with a noble lineage, had been a socially appropriate match, yet the two of them had not been well suited to each other. There were times when John considered that he had failed to make the relationship work, but he was certain now that there had been no chance of that.

So they had, for all practical purposes, separated; the queen went away to live elsewhere, to do as she liked with whomever she chose, and the king had resigned himself to the dreary, lonely life he seemed destined for.

He had tried many things to reinvigorate his existence. He’d been all over the land, and participated in hunts, and parties, and tournaments, but neither the grand gatherings he joined, nor the illustrious people he met, instilled in him the joy and excitement he wanted. He was disappointed time and again, and his caravan became a place for sulking and sour moods. However, that last tournament, one that had tested the abilities of many brave warriors and knights, was different.

It was not due to the competition itself, but a servant that the king met during the event. In the middle of the tournament, the king had wanted to take a look at the lance he was going to use for the final contest, the joust. He found the storage room where the weapons were kept, and inside the room, he saw a fair-skinned, dark-haired, slender figure, who had looked all the more delicate against the sword that he had been cleaning.

The king recalled the unassuming question he had posed to this enchanting servant.

_“Have the lances been cleaned yet?”_

_“No, I—oh!”_ It had been incredibly endearing when the servant had been startled by the appearance of a stranger, and had dropped the sword. In a way, this seemed natural. It was evident to the king that the sharp, aggressive object did not belong in Sherlock’s hands. _“Oh, sorry,”_ Sherlock had said quietly, almost inaudibly, blushing a pretty pink.

John smiled, recalling how he picked up the sword for Sherlock. At the time, the king managed to ignore the allure of the servant, and merely inquired about the lances, though he hadn’t been able to keep himself from asking if Sherlock would see the joust. Simply knowing that Sherlock would be at the joust gave the king motivation to do better than his best in that contest.

Looking back on that time, John saw clearly that he hadn’t wanted to leave Sherlock. He’d kept Sherlock close to him by offering the servant a place in the convoy, and it had seemed to be to Sherlock’s benefit too, since the servant could travel and find a place for himself in this land. The king felt happier than he had in a long time, being able to give Sherlock the freedom he desired to explore. Enjoying Sherlock’s company and admiring the servant’s eager curiosity about the world had been the king’s only intention.

He would have been content to admire Sherlock from afar. Certainly, he would never have forced his beautiful, innocent maid to do anything, nor would he have proposed anything untoward. Besides, John would have only wanted to share a meaningful connection with Sherlock, and there could be no meaningful connection between a king and a servant.

It had been both a miracle and a tragedy when Sherlock had offered himself to the king.

John watched Sherlock spin the handle of the cider press, which operated like a drill to slowly push a flat surface into the barrel. Sherlock started slowly at first, which was to be expected. He was a gentle individual, who only wished to learn about the world, not to damage it.

Thinking back to all the times he had watched Sherlock lightly wipe a blade or carefully clean a pair of boots, John understood that Sherlock truly was gentle. The king knew well the evil in the world, and knew just as well how to fight it head-on, but Sherlock had not half the ferocity that the king was capable of. Indeed, it had been a rare occurrence in John’s life to meet someone like his sweet maid, who was naturally so gentle, and so fragile as well.

John loved the excitement his servant shared with him, but just as much, he loved Sherlock’s innocence. Perhaps most of all, the king loved to be the one to protect him.

When they were done in the orchard, they would return to the inn in the village, where they were sharing a bed. Lying next to his sweet Sherlock and watching over him would bring almost as much heartache to John as when they at last returned to the caravan, and shared the enclosed space that only belonged to the two of them.

As outrageous as it was, he now shared the bed in his caravan with Sherlock—his darling servant, who had no idea how selfishly the king was acting. John knew very well his own selfishness, though. Regardless of his own feelings, John would someday need to sire an heir. It had always been expected of him. He needed to ensure the stability of his kingdom. How could he provide an heir and still devote himself to Sherlock? He was certain that he could not.

Sherlock seemed to accept this, but it wasn’t fair to expect him to truly understand these circumstances. He did not know the burden of expectations that a king was destined to carry. When the time came that John could no longer put off his duties to his lineage and his kingdom, Sherlock would feel betrayed, and would leave John forever.

His servant had spoken of trying a sire a child for John. If only! Were such a thing possible, John would take Sherlock’s hand this very instant and bring him behind one of these apple trees. He would kiss Sherlock and remove all the clothes from them both, and touch and soothe his servant until Sherlock was ready. Then John would hold him, the tanned colour of the king’s chest against the lighter tone of his servant’s back, and sink himself into the tightness and warmth of his lovely Sherlock.

John had to close his eyes when he pictured Sherlock moaning and trying to steady himself against the sturdy tree, caught between the tough bark and the unyielding body of the man who was holding him there. John’s ache would be hard inside Sherlock, and his arms would be just as rigid as they supported Sherlock’s slight frame.

Sherlock loved new experiences. Would he enjoy the novelty of making love in an orchard? Perhaps it would seem romantic to him, to be surrounded by the flourishing trees and fragrant fruit. John longed to fill his beloved with new and wonderful feelings of romance, as he filled Sherlock’s soft body.

With the same wonderment that filled him as he pressed cider, Sherlock would cry out as John parted his servant’s legs wider and entered him more deeply with each plunge. Sherlock would feel the king using him; would he feel the king siring a child with him, if that were possible? John would take Sherlock until the king was assured of a whole litter of heirs, until John had filled Sherlock with every drop of his seed, and he had heard Sherlock scream with the thrill of his own release. Keeping Sherlock close, giving him joy—that was what John truly desired.

Abruptly, John opened his eyes again, clenching his fists in his struggle not to give himself away with any vulgar noises. He leaned slightly so that his expensive tunic would be put to the disgraceful use of covering the bulging evidence left by his indecent thoughts. It was tremendously fortunate that Sherlock, who was often very perceptive, was too absorbed with the press to notice how distracted John had just been.

With effort, the uncouth imaginings were put away, but John knew he could only keep them contained for so long.

After Sherlock had pressed cider as much as he liked, he mentioned that he wanted to pick apples, though there were still cleaning duties for him to see to in the caravan. Of course, he was quickly given the king’s permission to stay in the orchard for a while longer.

Sherlock walked down the rows of trees with John again. With boundless energy, Sherlock hopped from one tree to the next, picking apples and placing them in his basket.

John lost himself in watching his bewitching servant enjoy the activity, though he came back to reality when Sherlock approached him, having collected many apples. “The basket is heavy now,” his servant said meekly. “We can go back.”

There was some room left in the basket, John noticed. “It’s okay, you can pick some more. Here, I’ll hold that for you.” Grinning widely, John took the item away from Sherlock, easily holding it up for his cute servant.

Though he appeared to be a little embarrassed, Sherlock smiled, which made John feel buoyantly light inside. “Thank you, sir.”

John was certain that he was beaming like the lovesick fool that he was as he carried the basket for Sherlock, who moved between the trees with such grace and beauty that he might as well have been dancing.

“I never thought there could be so many apples in one place,” Sherlock commented, full of enthusiasm, reaching for another piece of fruit. “Imagine all the things they could be used for.”

“You mean, in different recipes?”

“Recipes, perfumes, medicines.” Sherlock placed his next apple in the basket that John was holding. The king felt proud to be carrying things that had captured Sherlock’s fascination.

“You have a very active mind, don't you, Sherlock?”

Sheepishly, Sherlock turned away. “I’ve always thought too much about things. I know a servant shouldn’t think too much.”

“I think it’s a fantastic trait. Why shouldn’t you be brilliant? A brilliant servant for a brilliant king, right?”

Surprised and delighted, Sherlock giggled, and the adorableness of it charmed John completely.

He had once told Sherlock about his dark moods, those times when the emptiness of his life had kept him from acting the part of the charismatic, optimistic king. John no longer had those dark moods, and it was because of this beautiful man who had become his precious maid.

The dark moods had been replaced by a different affliction, however. John felt a constant regret that he could not promise himself entirely to Sherlock, the way that the servant had trustingly and generously devoted himself to the king. John could at least reassure himself that he would always protect Sherlock, and he would ensure that come what may, his servant was cared for.

~~

Hoping to work off some excess energy, John had decided to shoot a few apples for sport. Having paid the orchard for the privilege, he did just that, making sure to do so while Sherlock watched.

One could easily have called him vain for showing off his skills with the bow and arrow to his cherished servant. He liked to think that he wasn’t normally a vain person. Ordinarily, he would be as humble as any gallant king, yet when Sherlock looked at him in awe, he couldn’t bring himself to care about modesty. Sherlock affected him so strongly in so many ways.

The two of them had spent a long time in the orchard, for the second day in a row, but the sun was setting, and it would soon be time to return to the village again. Before they left, John purchased a few jugs of the orchard’s apple cider, simply because Sherlock had been so interested in the production of the beverage.

Not wanting Sherlock to feel bad about it, John didn’t say that he was buying the cider for the sake of his servant, but he also didn’t bother hiding how inordinately pleased he was when Sherlock wanted some of the drink John had acquired.

“I’ve never had apple cider before,” Sherlock remarked, his eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Can I drink some? If I’m allowed to have some of your cider, sir.”

“Of course you can,” John said. He cheerfully gave one of the jugs to Sherlock. “You can have it now, if you like.”

After a murmur of thanks from Sherlock, the servant lifted one of the jugs, titled his head back, and drank. He closed his eyes and moaned blissfully as he tasted the drink. With one easy swallow after another, Sherlock downed the liquid in the jug, clearly savouring ever drop.

John’s body and soul were suddenly overcome with a terrible fantasy.

Sherlock finished the drink, and licked his lips as he set down the jug. “Oh, I didn’t mean to finish the whole thing. Is that all right, sir?”

“Y-Yeah,” John answered, unsteady from the force of the fantasy that had flooded his mind. Swiftly, he recovered enough to steady his voice, if nothing else. “Yeah, that’s fine, Sherlock.”

“Thank you, sir.” Sherlock smiled. His soft, pink lips always curved in such a cute way when he smiled. He licked his lips, tasting the remnants of cider, inadvertently enflaming the awful passion within the king.

It was always wrong for John to think of his pretty servant in indecent ways, but that was especially true when he thought of Sherlock doing something entirely for the king’s benefit. Oh, but John knew that Sherlock’s pink lips were as sweet and gentle as the rest of him. Sherlock was pliant and soft when he yielded to one of the king’s kisses. It was only too easy to imagine what Sherlock could do with that gorgeous mouth on other parts of the king.

If John stood before his servant, and pulled down his clothes while Sherlock knelt on the floor, then the king could slide his hands into Sherlock’s curly hair while Sherlock licked those lips of his again. Ever curious about trying new things, Sherlock might lean forward, and welcome John into his mouth. By tenderly positioning his hands on Sherlock’s head, John could guide his servant, who was adorably inexperienced and endlessly curious.

John would be careful not to give too much to Sherlock, but only as much as Sherlock was comfortable with. That way, Sherlock would have all the time in the world to learn John’s taste, to enjoy the new experience, and John would love every tempting second of it. It would be difficult to pace himself if he was pleasured by his servant that way, yet John was certain it would be blissful as well. The king would control himself with all the strength of his will, so that he could taste Sherlock’s delight, as Sherlock tasted him.

“Is something wrong, sir?”

John opened his eyes, confused, because he did not remember closing them, and flustered, on account of his unrelenting imagination.

“Sir?” His dear servant was looking at him with so much concern.

John wasn’t sure that he should say anything. He felt powerful when he could see how devoted Sherlock was to him, though, and it gave him strength to speak honestly. “There’s something I’d like to do with you,” he said. “But it’s not quite right.”

“Anything, sir. I would do anything for you.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Please, tell me what it is, sir.”

“I can’t tell you here, Sherlock.” Truthfully, John was not quite ready to put his unconscionable request into words, if he was truly was going to ask for something so greedy from the innocent maid who was dependent on him. “It’s not urgent. I’ll tell you later.”

Sherlock often liked to get answers right away, but of course he could not urge the king to tell him anything. He waited silently and dutifully as they made the short journey back to the village.

John tried to use this to his advantage, to use the time he had to come up with some way of wording what he wanted that could somehow make it sound acceptable. This proved to be a difficult endeavour, because it was thoroughly unacceptable. It was true that John had once gone on his knees in front of Sherlock, but that was a very different situation; that had in truth been yet another instance when his guiltless servant had catered to the king’s needs, and moreover, King John was not the blushing innocent that his servant was.

Throughout the carriage ride back to the village, and indeed, while they walked to the inn, John continued to ponder how he might speak to Sherlock about this. However, it did not seem possible to him to ask for what his body longed for in any polite manner. He could not think of a way to phrase it as even somewhat decent.

All that John accomplished was thinking of what Sherlock would look like on his knees, his slender hands holding on to the king’s brawny legs and his face tickled by the coarse hair of John’s crotch. How gorgeous Sherlock would be, were he kneeling before John submissively, at the king’s mercy, ready to serve.

It was a struggle to reach the inn while he was plagued by these thoughts, but the full force of this impossible desire did not hit John entirely until he and his servant were alone in the room they were staying in at the inn. Once he was away from prying eyes, John knew abruptly how hard he had been working to subdue the yearning within him. He couldn’t keep it up any longer. It was too much to suppress. He also couldn’t impose on Sherlock.

Having no other alternatives, he marched to the bed and sat there, his hands rising up to face, curling into tight fists.

“Oh, sir,” Sherlock murmured. All too quickly, he was sitting at John’s side on the bed. “Tell me what’s wrong, please.”

John shook his head, fighting his urges in vain. “I want you so badly, Sherlock.”

“But you can have me, sir.”

“No, my sweet Sherlock, you don’t understand. I want you… I want you… kneeling, in front of me. Facing me.”

“What do you mean?”

Moved by the incredible innocence of his pure, lovely maid, John managed to look at him. The dark-haired, fair-skinned servant possessed an almost unearthly beauty. “Sherlock,” the king said softly, affectionately. Being near his concerned servant, and meeting his bright eyes, John couldn’t resist the aching of his body any longer. He put a hand on himself over his clothes, and started to stroke himself. “Mm, Sherlock,” he groaned.

Wide-eyed, Sherlock watched the movement of John’s hand.

“I want…” John grappled with his words. He forced them out, as there was no use in trying to think of something better now. “I want to satisfy myself in your sweet mouth… I dream of you taking me between your lips…”

“S-Sir,” Sherlock stammered in an endearing way, his gaze darting between John’s hand and face. “You mean…? Like what you did for me that one time, in the caravan?”

“Yes, but I wanted to do that. You don’t owe me anything. Oh, you can… just sit there and look pretty for me… my pretty servant…” Touching himself over his clothes wasn’t what he truly wanted, but it could be enough, if Sherlock stayed there.

Bravely, Sherlock leaned closer. “I’d like to try it, sir.”

Once more, John shook his head, though he could not do so as strongly a second time. “It’s not decent, to ask my servant to do that for me…”

“I don’t care, sir. I want to serve you.”

Sherlock stood up from the bed, and respectfully knelt in front of John. This initiative was so shocking that John stopped stroking himself.

It seemed that the impressive show of courage was already at an end, however. Sherlock could go no further. He almost touched John’s knees, but he faltered. “Can you help me undress you, sir?” Sherlock asked, apparently not bold enough to do it all on his own. “I don’t want to do anything wrong.”

John couldn’t say no to his servant. It was shameful, how quickly he gave in. Whereas he ought to have refused, he swiftly undressed himself, with a little help from Sherlock. Before long, he was exposed in front of Sherlock, who stared at the thick, flushed evidence of his master’s longing. Sherlock licked his lips, and the king felt himself grow heavier.

With an obvious sense of wonderment, Sherlock leaned in closer, and actually took a whiff of John’s ache. Sherlock let the brown hair in that sensitive area rub against his cheek, and hummed in a charming, inquisitive manner. “You smell nice, sir,” Sherlock said.

“S-Sherlock,” John rasped. He needed Sherlock so much. There was nothing in the world for him to comprehend but the blushing, enchanting maid who served him.

“Can I touch you, sir?” asked Sherlock.

“Yes, please,” John answered. He had never come so close to begging.

Sherlock steadied himself by holding John’s hips, though his grasp was maddeningly light and shy. He leaned in closer. “Is this all right, sir?”

“Oh, God, yes.”

“You’ll tell me how I’m doing, right? There’s so much I don’t know.”

“Of course, Sherlock, of course.” John took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to make himself wait, to give Sherlock all the time he needed. “Believe me, I’ll love anything you do.”

Sherlock’s tongue slipped cutely between his lips, and at last, he tasted John, little by little. His eyes fluttered in rapture as he got to know this new sensation.

Wracked with a hint of pleasure and a torrent of desire, John clutched the bed at either side of him.

The king would have loved to slip his hands into Sherlock’s curls, but he didn’t trust himself not to clutch Sherlock’s hair too fiercely. The reality of this was overwhelming; it was a struggle for him simply to stay still. Adamantly, he reminded himself that he could not lose control. No matter what desires coursed through his limbs, he could not hold Sherlock jealously and thrust wildly into his mouth, even if his body screamed for it.

Oh, but there was plenty that was blissful about going slowly for Sherlock. The servant was approaching this task with his characteristic eager curiosity. He was dazzling as he teased John with swipes of his tongue that grew bolder with each loud, rough grunt that John made. These sounds mixed with the lighter, softer hums that came from Sherlock.

“Sherlock,” John groaned. “You’re doing so well…”

His cheeks glowing bright, Sherlock carefully closed his mouth around John’s swollen ache.

The intensity of being taken this way by Sherlock was enough to make John shout out. Sherlock was awfully, wonderfully hot and acquiescent. It was better than John could have imagined. Though he tried to pace himself, he could not help thrusting just a little.

With splendid determination and more hums of interest, Sherlock followed John’s movements, learning to move with his master as more and more self-control slipped away from the king.

Under the devoted attention of his dear servant, John felt his end approaching quickly. It could not be prevented much longer when Sherlock started sucking on his master.

“Sherlock, I’m a-almost there,” John warned, in a breaking voice. With reluctant taps to the side of Sherlock’s face, John encouraged him to part from the king. He saw that there was confusion and regret in Sherlock’s features as the servant pulled away. “It’s all right, Sherlock,” he quickly assured him. “Oh, you’re so perfect, I can’t stop thinking about you…”

Stroking himself with his own touch again, John made one last cry, and spilled himself in his hands. He fell back onto the bed, overwhelmed. The relief was intense. He should have been mortified with what he had just done with his servant, but it was hard to regret anything when Sherlock made him feel so good, in body and in spirit.

As John began to recover, he found that his servant had moved to lie next to him, on the bed. Sherlock was looking at him with reverence. It was incredibly stirring, how Sherlock was ready to serve him even after what they had just done.

Sherlock swallowed, nervously. “I’m sorry I wasn’t fit to, well, do everything for you, at the end.”

The king knew immediately what Sherlock was referring to. He should have known that the confusion and regret he had glimpsed would linger within his blameless servant. “Oh. Sherlock, you were magnificent. You don’t need to worry about that. You hadn’t done anything like this before, and I didn’t want to do too much.”

Subtly, Sherlock touched John’s hand, so lightly that John hardly felt anything. “I would have liked to swallow your seed, sir,” he murmured.

A hot rush in John threatened to bring back his unconscionable desires. He took Sherlock’s shy hand firmly. “Well, maybe some other time, when you’re ready. If you still want to.”

Sherlock’s grip slowly tightened on John’s. “I want to do everything for you. If I do everything for you, you’ll never have to leave me.”

“Sherlock…”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that, sir.”

“You’re too good for me, Sherlock.”

This statement seemed to surprise his servant. “You mean that the other way around, surely, sir?”

“No, I don’t.” John didn’t want to give his self-conscious servant a chance to argue this point. At once, he took Sherlock in an embrace, and his servant sighed comfortably in return.

Right now, they had each other. He could only hope that Sherlock was telling the truth when he said that he never wanted to leave the king’s service. John was starting to think that he would never be able to give up Sherlock—this devoted servant, who had generously seen to one of the king’s needs, who had asked for nothing in return.

Considering that fact, John wondered if there was something he could do for Sherlock after all.

“Did you like sucking me, Sherlock?” he asked, enjoying the bashfulness that came over Sherlock in response.

Timidly, Sherlock nodded.

“Did it make you feel good?”

“Y-Yes, sir.”

“Did it make you want a bit of attention, yourself?”

Again, Sherlock gave him a shy nod.

Lifting himself up onto his elbow, John helped Sherlock onto his back, and with the servant’s permission, he lightly palmed Sherlock inside his breeches. He deeply appreciated how Sherlock shuddered on the sheets as he was touched by his master.

Every lovely, trusting whimper from his servant did mysterious, magical things to John’s soul. He longed to have Sherlock’s trust and devotion for the rest of time. Despite the demands of their positions in life, there was no way that John could ever stand to be separated from his treasured servant.

It was not correct for a king to be so closely attached to a servant, especially when he could never publicly acknowledge the attachment. A king needed to have the right kind of connections. Furthermore, he could not forget that there would need to be heirs eventually. John knew that he had these responsibilities, and yet there was hardly anything the king could do about how he felt.

John had land, and wealth, and power; despite all this, he had fallen in love with a gentle servant.


	7. The Fortress

John had taken part in his fair share of military campaigns and conflicts over the years. He had known many enemies on the battlefield. There had also been many allies, as well.

One of the soldiers he had fought alongside now directed a fortress that served as a potential defensive position. The fortress was composed of a castle surrounded by giant walls and towers. Weapons as well as relics from wars in times past were kept in the castle, which had survived through many historic conflicts. There was peace for the moment, so the fortress served mainly as a spot of interest for various visitors. Members of King John’s convoy now counted themselves among that number.

John’s old friend lived there, as did a small number of warriors who were responsible for the upkeep of the fortress. There were also many young trainees who came to this castle to learn the art of war from more experienced soldiers.

Currently, some of these trainees were honing their skills with wooden swords in the training ring, which was located in the castle’s large courtyard.

The trainees took notice of John at once, and when the king was introduced to them, they greeted him appropriately. Their courtesy was flattering, but John wanted them to know that he was as much a warrior as a king. He volunteered to spar with the young soldiers, so that they could learn a thing or two.

His eagerness to show off his skills might have had a little to do with the servant who was standing outside the training ring, watching with rapt attention.

John trained with one of the trainees, and then another. After sparring with the third volunteer, John left the young fellow gasping for breath, while the king was not at all winded. While the trainee took a break, John took the opportunity to speak to Sherlock.

Sherlock was sitting alone on a bench. The bench was simple, timeworn wood, and matched Sherlock’s simple clothes, but not his shining face. He looked up eagerly when John approached.

“You fought very well, sir.”

“Did I?” John grinned, pleased with himself for putting on a good performance for Sherlock. “I suppose so, though I didn’t get the chance to do much. But Sherlock, I wanted to tell you that you could explore the fortress more, if you want. You don’t have to stay here.”

Sherlock glanced at the training ring. “Will you be sparring more?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

A charming pink blush flourished on his pretty servant’s face. “Then I would like to stay here and watch, sir.”

Pride swelled in the king’s chest. “As you like,” he said.

Feelings other than pride started to build within the king, when his eyes met those of his adorable servant. John felt sweet affection, and a tension also. He knew by now that these were symptoms of his love for Sherlock, a love that persisted stubbornly through all of the king’s struggles to control his feelings.

It was a shame that he could not proclaim to everyone in the courtyard that this servant was the cherished beloved of the king. As it was, the soldiers and trainees had paid little attention to Sherlock; they hardly noticed any of the servants that had come along on the convoy and visited the fortress with their masters.

In John’s opinion, the devastatingly gorgeous and brilliant servant deserved more respect and awe than even his master had received. Although, perhaps it was good in one way that they did not notice Sherlock; if one of them looked at the fair-skinned, dark-haired beauty for more than an instant, the king would likely find himself with a competitor for Sherlock’s affections.

The thought was a painful one. He wanted Sherlock to be his, for as long as Sherlock would allow it.

“Sherlock,” the king murmured.

Sherlock’s voice softened as well, following John’s example. “Yes, sir?”

“I’m going to do extra well in the training ring, just for you. I want to be the warrior who pleases you best. So if ever you think one of those strapping young soldiers becomes more interesting than me, please let me know.” John leaned in closer, not past the bounds of propriety, but nearly at the edge, and saw a little shudder in his dear servant. “At least give me the chance to outshine whatever devil tries to impress you. Can you do that for me?”

“O-Of course, sir,” Sherlock stammered cutely. “But you needn’t worry.”

Pleased, John smiled. “You’re a good servant. I don’t mean that you can’t leave me, Sherlock. But at least give me the chance to do better if I’m not gallant enough for you.”

Sherlock gave him a modest but sincere smile. “You are certainly gallant enough, sir.”

Leaning in closer, perhaps slightly too close, if only for a moment, John whispered, “Know that I’m fighting for you, Sherlock. I want to be your champion.”

With a sharp gasp, Sherlock blushed again, and nodded shyly.

Full of determination, John returned to the training ring, ready to face the next trainee.

Like the previous fighter, this one could not match the skill of the experienced king. After a few rounds, John offered the trainee helpful advice, and praise for proper technique. Following this opponent, more proficient soldiers asked for a chance to face the king, and though they provided more of a challenge, it soon became clear that none of them could match John’s skill.

Throughout the entire session, John truly did feel that he was fighting for his darling Sherlock. It had been a long time since the smack of wooden swords in a training ring had been so exciting for John. He had spent a great deal of time in his life using weapons, but never before had the activity seemed so thrilling as when his servant admired not only John’s blows but his teaching as well.

John wished he could do more to reward Sherlock for bringing him so much joy. If only he could satisfy every longing his servant ever had, so that no one else could ever please Sherlock better.

After the sparring was done, John, along with some other members of their convoy, was shown some more rooms of the fortress, with Sherlock following. Unsurprisingly, Sherlock had many questions about why certain fortifications existed, and how the guards divided their tasks, and a number of other things. Luckily, John was able to answer most of Sherlock’s questions, though Sherlock was able to deduce some answers himself.

When they walked through a storage room for weapons, a wave of nostalgia halted John in his tracks. He fancied that a similar feeling overcame his servant, who stopped to look at the king, rather than the interesting armaments.

“Oh, sorry,” Sherlock said, turning away. “I did not mean to stare.”

John waited until the other nobles who were touring the fortress moved on from the room, leaving John and Sherlock behind. The king pretended to examine a sword, until at last they had some privacy. Then, he asked Sherlock a question.

“Were you remembering when we first met, Sherlock?”

This question seemed to catch the servant off guard. “Um, yes, sir. Do you remember that?”

_Did he remember that?_ How could John forget when he had first seen the cute servant who would come to be his cherished maid? The question was so absurd that John chuckled.

Alarmed, Sherlock asked, “What is it?”

“Oh, Sherlock, I think I’ll always remember seeing you at the tournament, in that storage room, of all places.” He touched Sherlock’s slender arm, and let his hand glide up so that he could slowly caress Sherlock’s neck, and then his ear.

Sherlock quivered. “S-Sir…”

“It was an odd place to meet you, now that I think about it. I hardly think someone like you belongs in a harsh room full of weapons.” John sighed. “I fit in perfectly well, though.”

“What do you mean by that, sir? You are not a harsh man.”

John was moved by his servant’s innocence. “Only a harsh man would want to keep you like I do. Isn’t it harsh of me, to want to keep you?”

“You are a good master, sir,” Sherlock murmured. “I like being yours.”

It was hard to accept that his lovely Sherlock would condone the ludicrous possessiveness that had risen in the king. Too smitten to be as discreet as he ought to be in case any of the nobles or soldiers returned, John pulled Sherlock’s head closer.

“Would you mind a kiss?” John asked softly. A kiss would be especially indiscreet, but John could hardly resist.

Sherlock quietly replied, “Of course not, sir.”

John kissed his servant then. He did not want to overwhelm Sherlock, so he restrained himself, though he could not keep some of his passion out of their kiss, especially when Sherlock softly moaned. This embrace was terrifically pleasing, though it did more to tease the king than to satisfy him. Alas, they were in a public place, and the kiss could not last.

Too soon, in John’s opinion, they pulled apart. After a brief pause to appreciate being so close to his servant, John reluctantly led Sherlock out of the room, so that they might catch up with the tour.

Sherlock did not seem to pay as much attention to the fort’s curiosities as he had before. He did ask a few questions still, though he mostly lingered close to the king.

One of the last sights of their tour was the dungeon, deep within the fortress. It had not seen use for a very long time, though chains had been left there, probably just to fascinate visitors. John had seen dungeons before. For him, this was nothing new.

It was new to his servant, however. Suddenly, the fortress excited Sherlock again. “What are those, sir?” he asked John, pointing at the various chains.

Heat rose in the king’s body at that instant. To be asked about these foul devices by his innocent maid suddenly brought images to his mind that were deplorable.

The dungeon was like new to John now. Shackles and chains seemed to glow with a meaning that John had never comprehended before. He saw with startling clarity that these tools could help him please his servant. Were Sherlock restrained in such things, the king could satisfy his shy servant completely and endlessly. Sherlock was often too modest to give into pleasure entirely, but if he gave his permission to the king, then John could hold him still with these bonds and fill him with pleasure and bliss. His dear Sherlock would be helpless to desire and gratification. He would be free to writhe and scream in ecstasy under his king.

Perhaps then, the king thought, with such jealousy that it nearly shocked him, Sherlock would never want to be anywhere else.

Soon, the tour was over, and John was glad for it. Eager to be alone with his servant again, he told Sherlock that they would return to the stately room that the king had been granted by his old friend. A room had not been offered to Sherlock, but that was to be expected, as John had not made any such request.

If he could not kiss Sherlock in front of anyone, at least he could keep Sherlock in his room. The other visiting nobles were not likely to notice where the servant slept, and where the old friend of John’s was concerned, the king had once saved the man’s life; therefore, John knew that he was free to do what he wished while he stayed in that room, and no questions would be asked.

He led Sherlock directly to that room. It had been furnished well for the king, and was well illuminated with sunlight streaming in through elegant windows. There was also a functional fireplace, though it was not currently in use.

“Sit on the bed, Sherlock,” the king directed.

There was often a sinful tingling in John’s body when Sherlock obeyed him, and this occasion was no different. Dutifully, Sherlock took his place on the king’s bed, his hands clasped diffidently, and his cheeks already starting to become the fetching pink that never failed to fascinate John.

He wondered what Sherlock was anticipating. Probably it was something lovely, though nothing like the restrained tremors and impassioned cries that the king was guilty of imagining.

John stepped closer to where his servant sat, and reached around him so that he was holding Sherlock, with his hands on Sherlock’s back.

“How can I serve you, sir?” Sherlock asked, devotedly.

That kind of devotion could break John’s heart. “Stay with me.”

John’s hands moved further down the back of the servant’s tunic, to tenderly cup Sherlock’s bottom. Sherlock nearly jumped.

“Is this all right, Sherlock?”

Sherlock was blushing sharply now. “Yes, sir.”

Desire had become a mighty force in John, yet he wanted to take his time. He wanted so much from Sherlock, and he was willing to wait for it. Leisurely, John started to massage Sherlock’s rear.

His appealing servant whimpered prettily.

“I want to take you in my bed tonight, Sherlock,” John whispered.

“Oh, um, I’m ready now, sir, if you want me.”

“No, not right now.”

“No? But I am ready,” Sherlock said. He sounded frightened. “You do want me, don’t you?”

John never wanted Sherlock to be frightened. He gave his servant a steady, reassuring look, and gave Sherlock’s pert little rump a tender squeeze.

Sherlock gasped, and reflexively grabbed onto John. It made the king happy that his servant would reach for him like that.

“Don’t worry, Sherlock,” he crooned softly. “I do want you. Terribly. But there’s something special that I want to do with you, tonight, if the idea appeals to you.”

“Something special?”

“That’s right. Did you like the dungeon, Sherlock?”

“Oh, yes, it was interesting.” Sherlock sounded confused. He was probably trying to figure out what John was up to. Certainly, the innocent servant wouldn’t have been struck with vulgar thoughts like the king had been.

“I thought it was interesting, too, especially when I thought about how the two of us could use the things we saw.” John kissed Sherlock on the cheek. It was incredible that he could share this intimacy with this beautiful creature. “You are magical, aren’t you, Sherlock?”

“If only,” Sherlock mumbled. Slowly, Sherlock had become more self-assured, but still too often, John’s poor servant thought so little of himself.

“No, I think you truly are magical. You use your magic on me, so that I can’t think of anything else but making you my own.” Once again, John gave Sherlock a light squeeze, which provoked another enchanting whimper. “If you’d let me, Sherlock, then tonight, I’d show you what you do to me. I’d use those chains to keep you still, so that you would be completely mine.”

“Oh.” Sherlock gasped. It was apparent that his clever mind had quickly understood what John meant. “In bed? While we…?”

“That’s right, Sherlock.”

“Is that… acceptable?”

“That’s up to you.”

“Oh, well, um, yes! I’d like that,” Sherlock mumbled quickly, “If that’s all right.”

“You would let me do that?” Hoping to show Sherlock that he only meant for his servant to feel pleasant things, John kissed Sherlock’s cheek again, and stroked his back. “In restraints like that, you would be helpless to me. I could do everything I want to engulf you in pleasure.”

Sherlock leaned anywhere John touched him. “Yes, sir.”

“I want this evening to be perfect for you. Tell me if you change your mind, about anything. I only enjoy whatever we do as much as you enjoy it. Rest up until then. I wish to do so much with you, and I want you to be ready.”

“Your Majesty,” Sherlock said, urgently. “I’m ready now.”

“Tonight, Sherlock.” John stepped back from Sherlock at last, knowing that he could not resist the allure of his servant for much longer if he continued to touch him. “Oh, I want you to be mine. I want you to know how desired and cherished you are.”

There was a breathless murmur from his servant. “Thank you, sir.”

John couldn’t face the inexplicable gratitude in Sherlock’s features. The king turned towards the window instead. “You shouldn’t say that. It’s not a good, pure feeling, Sherlock, that I have for you. It’s possessive, and greedy. Don’t mistake me for one of those romantic heroes from fairy tales.”

“I…” Sherlock swallowed, clearly trying to build his courage. “I know of some fairy tales, sir. I think you fit them well. You’re a noble and chivalrous king. It’s me who doesn’t fit the fairy tales.” Nervously, Sherlock looked away. “For one thing, the awkward servant isn’t a very romantic figure.”

John turned back to his servant at once. He was sorely tempted to touch Sherlock again. “I think you’d fit in very well. Isn’t there always a charming beauty for the king to win over?”

Bashfully, Sherlock simpered and giggled, his cheeks rounding with joy and his voice rising with endearing embarrassment.

John did not doubt his ability to inconspicuously acquire some of those tools from the dungeon. He was uncertain, however, of whether or not he could deny his own desires until evening.

~~

The sun had set, and now the only light in the room came from the fireplace. The flames flickered quietly. It was a peaceful, discreet atmosphere.

This calmness did not extend to Sherlock, however. It was easy for John to see that his servant was nervous. Sitting upright on the bed, in his usual tunic and breeches, Sherlock was clearly stiff and tense. It was understandable that he would be nervous. Without a doubt, the inexperienced servant had never done anything like this before.

Sherlock was more nervous than John had expected, however. He was taken aback when he touched Sherlock’s shoulder and felt how much his servant was quivering.

“Are you all right with this, Sherlock?” John asked, keeping his touch light. “You don’t have to do this for my sake.”

“No s-sir,” Sherlock said, in a voice that was soft, sweet, and stammering. “I want to see to your needs, sir.”

“You’re trembling.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I… I am worried.”

“About what?”

“I’m afraid I will take liberties, sir.”

John might have laughed, if his servant hadn’t looked so genuinely concerned. Still, the king could hardly believe what he had heard. “ _You_ will take liberties?”

“I… I want this very much,” Sherlock said quickly, looking away. “I want to be held in place for you.” It was remarkable, how hearing these words from Sherlock made John’s body come alive. “Not just to serve you, sir. Ever since you mentioned it, I’ve been thinking about what it will be like, to be restrained under you… Sir, I might become injudicious…. I mean… I don’t know how to say this. I worry I’ll enjoy it too much, and I won’t be very considerate.”

Overcome with a desire to comfort Sherlock, John climbed onto the bed, onto his blushing servant’s lap. The king, bearing his usual confidence and dressed in his noble finery, felt acutely how different they must have looked. The shy, slender, modestly-dressed servant was nothing like the proud, broad-shouldered, formally-attired king.

“I’ll t-try to be good for you,” the servant managed.

“Sherlock,” the king said, “you’re afraid you’ll enjoy it?”

“I always enjoy your attention, sir,” the servant replied meekly, “but to be held in place for you… I only hope I can refrain from embarrassing myself too much, by being too loud or begging or l-losing control of myself like a complete novice…”

John groaned, without meaning to.

Startled, Sherlock stopped talking.

“Oh, Sherlock,” John murmured. “I want you so bad.”

“D-Don't you want a skilled lover, sir?”

“I want _you_.”

Sherlock’s eyes shined in the firelight, and shadows played elegantly over his beautiful face, though disbelief lingered in his features. “I hope you won’t be disappointed in me, sir.”

“I’m the one who mustn’t disappoint you.” John caressed his pretty servant’s arm. “I told you, it’s not a pure feeling that I have for you. To be honest, I’m a selfish bastard when it comes to you. Here you look so tense, but I want you so badly that it hurts.”

He longed desperately to make love to his blushing servant; he also desired to tell Sherlock how much he loved him, but there was only so much that he could say. It would be cruel to say that he loved Sherlock, when he could not promise to be loyal to him like a husband.

“Would you undress for me, Sherlock?” he asked, keeping his besotted voice stable with considerable effort.

“Oh, um, yes, at once, sir.” As he said, Sherlock immediately started to undress himself, but quickly, his hands began fidgeting, and the garments would not give under his nervous efforts.

John sometimes wondered if this servant wasn’t too precious to be left alone with him. “I’ll do it for you, if that’s all right?”

With adorable bashfulness, Sherlock nodded, and John started removing the clothes from his servant. Being allowed to slide the garments off Sherlock’s body, when Sherlock was so shy and sweet that he could not do it himself, made John’s blood burn. Desire and affection coursed hotly through his body. He yearned for the moment when he could show Sherlock how much he was wanted. The desire in the king to make Sherlock writhe and scream with joy matched another wish within John, though that one could not be satisfied.

“Relax, Sherlock.” John could not say in good conscience that he was in love with his servant, but at least he could make him feel pleasant things.

He took off Sherlock’s last garments tenderly, kissing soft skin everywhere it was revealed, save for the groin area; John was very certain of how he wanted the evening to progress, and he did not wish to bring Sherlock to his peak too soon.

When his servant mewled as his legs were stroked, John touched Sherlock’s cheek. The servant shuddered under the king’s touch, and leaned into John’s hand. How endearing it was, to feel the softness of Sherlock’s face. Its smoothness was so much unlike John’s rough stubble.

“I want to be yours, sir, only yours…”

“Shh.” John kissed his cheek again, knowing that Sherlock often needed to be relaxed when they shared physical intimacy together. It was touching to be trusted to reassure his pretty servant, to ease him into the joys they could share.

Moving slowly, so as not to alarm his servant, John, who was still dressed, retrieved the chains that he had discreetly acquired, as well as the jar that he often used with Sherlock.

Sherlock’s eyes grew wide when he saw the objects.

“Sir,” he murmured, “are those…?”

“For you? Yes, Sherlock.” John caressed his servant again. Sherlock was trembling less now, though his eyes were as wide and innocent as ever, and there was no mistaking the evidence of his arousal. “Do you still want to be mine?”

“Absolutely. In any way you’ll have me, sir.”

John guided one of Sherlock’s arms to the corner of the bed. “Then I’ll have you in every way, Sherlock.”

“S-Sir… If I take liberties…”

“Shh, it’s all right,” John whispered, as he calmly attached Sherlock’s wrist to the bedpost. He adjusted the chain so that Sherlock would be bound, but not uncomfortable.

Moving to the other side of his servant, John again bound Sherlock’s gentle, pale hand to a bedpost. It struck John that Sherlock’s arms were already so slender and delicate, compared to those of the king, that it was almost superfluous to bind them.

With his arms now forced apart, and his hands bound to two corners of the bed, Sherlock, naked, trembling, and blushing like a rose in spring, was exposed before the king. The servant’s gentle eyes met the king’s for a moment, and then Sherlock looked away, his legs twitching timidly. Those elegant legs were slender, like Sherlock’s arms, not built for combat like John’s limbs, but for something tender and graceful, like dancing.

“You’re so beautiful,” John murmured, trying to be reassuring, though his voice had become much lower. “I want you so much.”

Already, Sherlock was breathing faster than before. “You do think I’m beautiful?”

“Trust me, there’s no question about it.”

“I do trust you.” Sherlock looked at one of his own bound hands. “But it’s hard to think someone could want me so much…”

“Half the world would want you, could they see you now.” John pushed Sherlock’s legs up, so that his feet were nearly against his bottom.

“Half the world?” Sherlock’s tone was light and sweet.

“They’d love to look at you, but they could only look, because I wouldn’t let a single one of them near you.” He guided Sherlock’s knees apart, so that he could clearly see what waited for him between Sherlock’s legs. The beauty of what was before him made John’s heart pound. “They can’t touch what’s worthy of a king.”

“Sir. Please, sir.” There was rattling as Sherlock’s arms started to shake excitedly. His legs also quivered where they lied on the bed at either side of the king. John thought those legs were long and elegant, as pretty as the rest of Sherlock. Easily, John raised his servant’s legs and steadied them over his shoulders. They felt light on his broad, strong body.

He dipped his hand into the jar. “May I, Sherlock?”

“Oh, yes, please, sir!”

Lost in that angelic plea, John pushed his first finger into Sherlock.

“Oh, yes,” Sherlock whined, desperately. The chains rattled once more. “T-To be treated like a treasure… I don’t understand it, sir. I am no treasure.”

“Sherlock.” John’s entire being, from his body down to his soul, ached to enter Sherlock, and to feel Sherlock’s tight, hot entrance around him while he gratified his servant. It was exquisite to anticipate making love to Sherlock so completely, and for so long, that Sherlock could never again doubt how desired he was.

“I’m too inexperienced to give you pleasure, not built right to give you children…”

“Shh, Sherlock. Think about how cherished you are. How adored you are.”

Sherlock moaned, and the sound intensified when John added another finger.

“Think about how much I want you.”

“Oh… I want to be yours, sir…”

“You _are_ mine.” John’s tone was low and dangerous. He almost pitied any person who ever tried to take Sherlock away from him. “How does this feel?”

“Oh, it feels good, sir... Like I’m vulnerable for you, but safe with you…”

“Sherlock,” John said tenderly, pushing three fingers in his servant. It was John’s greatest joy to keep his servant happy and safe. He moved his hand back and forth carefully, making Sherlock undulate and whimper.

When he was certain that Sherlock had been thoroughly prepared, John rolled his fingers over Sherlock’s soft, pert buttocks, easily pushed them apart, and then thrust into the slicked entrance of his pretty servant.

“Oh,” Sherlock gasped, and his lush, dark curls fell back on the bed. His body wriggled instinctively, his arms shaking where they were held over his head, his legs tensing over John’s back. “Oh, Your M-Majesty… Please…”

“Sherlock,” John said, “It’s all right.” Slowly, he settled deep within Sherlock, aching powerfully to enjoy what, indeed, was worthy of a king; however, thinking of Sherlock’s pleasure and comfort, John found it strangely easy to keep himself still, to be steady and firm while the soft body under him and around him trembled.

“I might lose c-control of myself…”

Petting Sherlock’s bottom, John thought only of comforting his servant. “Relax, Sherlock.”

John could feel his heartbeat in his own member. It was an intimate feeling, to feel himself throbbing within Sherlock. He loved to think of how this felt for Sherlock, who was moaning with pleasure. The king’s dear servant squirmed in his bonds, adjusting to the sensation of being impaled by John’s hot length, which was rigid and unyielding inside him.

“Let yourself enjoy it, Sherlock.” The king’s hands drifted away from Sherlock’s rear, to stroke over his thighs and rest soothingly on his servant’s smooth legs, which were secure over John’s shoulders.

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered. “S-Sir…”

“Shh, Relax,” the king said calmly. “I have you.”

“I’m y-yours, sir…”

Those words left John light-headed. “Mine,” he whispered. His hands moved back down, and he caressed the soft, white skin on the inside of Sherlock’s thighs.

With a long moan, Sherlock rolled his head, and his hips jerked, taking more of John into himself, which only prolonged Sherlock’s keening.

“Good, Sherlock.” John continued to caress his servant. He would always make sure that Sherlock was cared for and protected.

Gradually, he felt the tension loosen in Sherlock’s slender legs. The lovely servant’s arms squirmed less and less in their restraints. His hips ceased fidgeting, instead surrendering to the obstinate intrusion of John’s thick length, which pulsed more than ever with a need to complete its purpose.

John slid himself out, and smoothly thrust back into Sherlock.

“Oh, yes, sir!” More passion could be heard from Sherlock’s sweet, overcome voice than ever before.

“Good, Sherlock.” Gradually, John picked up his speed, finding a rhythm that would slide him into Sherlock just right.

Sherlock cried out, again and again, at last freely shouting out with emotion that deeply stirred the king. “More, yes, please,” the servant pleaded under his breath.

Every honest sound and undisguised plea from his servant was a powerful driving force, yet John kept his rhythm perfectly even, taking Sherlock in a smooth, unrelenting pace.

Gasping and writhing, Sherlock threw his head back, screaming in magnificent ecstasy.

“Oh, Sherlock,” John groaned, “you’re so gorgeous.”

Whimpering, Sherlock rolled his head again, and his hips impulsively tried to match John’s movements, to take John deeper, though that that mattered little now; John was soothing his pretty servant with a constant rhythm, moving as surely and deeply as he willed, and Sherlock was helpless to the care of his king. It was pleasing to John to hear Sherlock’s passionate cries grow louder.

“Just like that, Sherlock,” whispered the king, his voice rough, “let yourself go.”

“Oh, yes,” Sherlock gasped, his body making a lovely arc as he felt his king’s thrusts, “Yes, sir…”

“That’s it, Sherlock.”

For a long time, John kept his resolute pace, caring about nothing other than satisfying his servant. It was intensely wonderful, to please Sherlock so much that he writhed and cried out in bliss, too enveloped in pleasure to be hindered by modesty.

Ultimately, one of John’s hands drifted away from Sherlock’s leg, to the sign of Sherlock’s arousal that was bobbing gently in the air. “It’s time for you to come for me, Sherlock.” John stroked his servant, in time with the king’s rhythm.

A dazzling high-pitched keen escaped Sherlock as he found his gratification.

Seeing Sherlock lose himself to pleasure and feeling him shudder with satisfaction, John had little choice but to reach his own peak. He found his release in Sherlock, who keened again, in a dreamy, relaxed tone; the sweet sound prolonged the king’s bliss.

Finally, John returned to awareness with deep breaths. His gorgeous servant was still under him. Sherlock’s fair skin was pleasantly flushed, his curls were in disarray from his head rolling around on the bed, and he was panting for breath. There was such a look of ecstasy on Sherlock’s face that John was filled with pride for having satisfied his servant so well. It had been magnificent to inundate Sherlock with so much love and devotion that Sherlock had given in to passion at last.

For a moment, John admired his pretty servant, who looked beautiful so relaxed and debauched on the king’s bed. Then he slipped out of Sherlock, appreciating the lethargic but ambivalent whine Sherlock made that sounded almost like a complaint, and set to work releasing Sherlock's wrists from their bonds. Once Sherlock's arms were freed, the servant's graceful body stretched on the sheets, and when he closed his eyes, he looked so much at peace that he could have been sleeping, if not for his small, happy smile.

Touched, John wrapped an arm around Sherlock, making his servant hum quietly.

This had been incredible, and yet there were a million other things John wished to do with Sherlock. It was all the king wanted, to share everything in his life with his cherished servant.

Feeling lethargic himself, John said softly, “I love you.”

He felt a bit of a jolt from his servant, but John knew that Sherlock became jumpy at times and didn’t think too much about it; he was able to soothe Sherlock with his hands sliding over Sherlock’s chest, which made Sherlock relax and smile again.

Some part of John’s fogged mind knew that the words he had just spoken aloud were very important, and would bring consequences later. He didn’t want to think about those consequences right now, however. It seemed far better to lie in contentment, to hold Sherlock close and keep him safe.


	8. The Festival

Sherlock had seemed happy at the fortress, and for a while after, but slowly, his mood had sunk. He was now sullenly brushing his dark, curly hair with a mirror in his hand.

Their convoy had just entered a new city, and the caravan was now parked, so John was free to lean against some of the built-in cabinets and gaze at his servant. He liked to admire those lively curls bouncing as they were brushed, but he did not like the forlorn look on Sherlock’s face, which John caught a glimpse of in the mirror.

If some kind of trouble had beset the servant, the king wanted to be the first one to know about it. “Is something bothering you, Sherlock?” he asked, in a straightforward manner.

“It’s all right if you didn’t mean what you said,” Sherlock uttered, his voice light and tenuous.

At first, John wasn’t sure what Sherlock was referring to. But all too quickly, he remembered the words he had foolishly allowed to slip from his mouth in the fortress, when he had been overcome with his feelings for his servant, too affected by what they had done together and too caught up in thoughts of sharing all his life with Sherlock.

“I suppose,” Sherlock said meekly, to his mirror, “you’ve forgotten, anyway. Never mind, sir.”

John didn’t know what to say. “Sherlock,” he began, though he couldn’t manage to continue from there. Should he tell Sherlock that he meant those words? It would be cruel to let the servant know how much he was loved by a king who would someday have to leave him for the sake of duty, and yet, John wanted Sherlock to know how deeply cherished he was.

There was nothing the king could do to make up for what he had done. He didn’t say anything more, and neither did Sherlock. The silence was awkward, but it could not be helped. Hopefully, the excitement of this new city would take Sherlock’s attention away from the selfish king and make him forget John’s imprudent confession.

Once everything was in order with the convoy, John led Sherlock out into the city, which was teeming with activity, as there was a great festival going on. The vibrant sounds and noises were a welcome distraction for the king, and seemed to put Sherlock in a much better mood, as John had hoped. There were many people, more than there had been at the tournament. John fancied that his servant, who eyed the crowds in awe, had never before seen so many people in one place.

The melodic sound of lutes and other instruments floated through the air. Paintings with bright hues and flowing shapes were on display. Artisans showed off their unique wares to the discerning nobles and lively commoners alike that strolled from one booth to the next and commented on what they saw with unreserved opinions.

Many people had come from farms and nearby villages to this city, to enjoy the sights and sounds of the art festival. John had made certain that their convoy would also pass through this city during the time of the festival, especially once he knew how Sherlock relished new experiences. For a long time, he had been looking forward to seeing his servant’s face light up when presented with so many absorbing works of art.

Indeed, Sherlock was amazed by the many different styles of art present at the festival. He gazed at lifelike statues, studied distinctive pieces of ceramics, and even asked John if they might watch one or two of the dramatic performances being put on by various poets, actors and dancers at the event. John was more than happy to agree to this, and easily acquired excellent spots for the two of them in every audience, being an esteemed king who desired to keep a dependable servant close at hand.

As it turned out, the companies putting on performances enjoyed having an esteemed king in their audience, and they invited John to a number of other shows, where he was given the best seat available, though he was always insistent that he required an additional seat, to be used by the servant he relied upon. Nobody argued this point with the king.

Each performance seemed to engage Sherlock. They did not all impress him, but even if he did not love a certain show, the servant still leaned forward with interest, remarking on how the piece might be improved. It was a delight to see Sherlock become so interested in the performances, and to marvel at the way his eyes sparkled as his brilliant mind examined the technical aspects of what they observed on stage.

What affected Sherlock most of all, however, was the music.

The servant tried to hide this fact, evidently. When musicians took the stage, Sherlock suddenly became quiet, crossing his arms and doing a very bad job at pretending to be uninterested. At first, John thought that Sherlock simply did not like the first bit of music they were treated to, a song performed by a singer and a harpist, but he soon noticed that Sherlock acted this way during every musical act.

John wasn’t sure what this meant. He had thought that Sherlock liked music, or at least it had seemed that way during their visit to the temple. When they had heard the chorus of monks there, Sherlock had hummed the tune for a long time afterward. Then again, the servant had been rather shy about his humming.

Turning to Sherlock, John asked, “Do you want to listen to more musicians?”

“Uh, no, that’s all right, sir.”

“Did you not like the music we heard?”

Sherlock weakly shrugged his shoulders. “I, um, I have no opinion, sir.”

If there weren’t so many people around, John would hold his servant close and tell him that it was okay to tell his master the truth. In this crowded place, however, he had to keep his manner appropriate.

“It looked to me like you had some thought or other about the music. You can tell me about it.”

Saying nothing, Sherlock looked lost, as if he didn’t understand what John had said.

“What is it, Sherlock?”

“I don’t think we should be talking about this, sir?”

This struck John as particularly odd. Weren’t they merely talking about music? Why shouldn’t they talk about music?

Sherlock must’ve noticed John’s confusion, because he tried to explain. “Music isn’t something that a commoner discusses with a noble, right, sir? You probably know so much about notes and instruments and so forth. I’m not meant to know that much about it, sir.”

“All kinds of people play music.”

For a moment, Sherlock only blinked at John. Then, in a perplexed tone, he said, “I must admit, sir, it’s a surprise to hear you say that. The common kind of music is surely not the noble kind, sir, not the kind with hours of instruction and study. Not to mention, the superior instruments used by the noblest of musicians are very different from those of the common people, are they not?”

“Oh, Sherlock,” John said, sympathetically. He had never thought of music that way, but it made sense that someone from a humble place in life would have different perspectives on things. “It’s all music, no matter who is playing it, or with what instrument. Do you remember the temple?” When John asked this, Sherlock’s cute embarrassment showed instantly that he did. “Oh, of course you do. Well, when you hummed at the temple, that was music. And when the troubadour plays his lute, or a prince plays a harp, that’s music, too. It’s all music, Sherlock.”

Sherlock still looked uncertain, so John placed his hand on his servant’s shoulder. It was a discreet and brief action, but it seemed to help Sherlock somewhat. His shoulders relaxed, and he smiled. “Really, sir?”

“Yeah, really. There’s nothing wrong with the two of us talking about music.” John was certain of that, at least. “Now what was it that you were thinking about before?”

Fortunately, Sherlock was still smiling. “Thank you, sir. The truth is that I would like to play music. I have thought of it many times, though I never thought I could. Though, once, I was employed by a house in which there was a violin.” The smile became sheepish. “I would… borrow the violin, and play it. I could not buy one, nor could I afford instruction. I simply watched others use it, and then played it when nobody would notice it was missing.”

A golden opportunity appeared for John to do something for his dear servant, and he couldn’t possibly pass it up. “Would you like a violin, Sherlock?”

“Sir…”

“I need a servant that can entertain me with music, right?”

Happiness and gratitude washed over Sherlock’s pretty face. “Oh, I suppose so.”

That was all John needed to hear. With Sherlock following closely behind, John immediately found the vendors of musical instruments, who were displaying their wares for intrigued amateurs and adept musicians alike. From a craftsman who dealt only in stringed instruments, John acquired the best violin that was offered in the whole festival, after making sure it met with Sherlock’s approval.

With both hands, Sherlock held the item carefully, as if it were made of glass. “This is too generous, sir.”

“Only the best for my servant. Won’t you play for me, now?”

“I haven’t played in a long time, sir. Give me a moment to remember.”

Sherlock held the violin up, and experimentally drew the bow over one of the strings. Slowly, he began to play with more confidence, and to produce cleaner notes.

It was not long before Sherlock got into the spirit of it. He seemed to remember a good deal, as he played admirably well. People walking by turned their heads and smiled appreciatively at his energetic tunes.

For a second, John wondered if he should allow so many people to admire the songs that Sherlock was playing, but such was too much jealousy even for the king to tolerate in himself. In any case, he knew that nobody in that crowd would be able to take Sherlock home with them, like the king would be able to. Nobody else would be able to sit with Sherlock at night and ask for a private song.

With the violin held under his arm, Sherlock learned from the craftsman how to take care of the instrument. What he learned left him adorably embarrassed, as apparently he had never correctly prepared or cleaned the violin he had once borrowed. He was also instructed on the use of rosin, which was the sticky material that allowed the bow of the violin to produce sound against the strings, and stashed some into his satchel. Again, not knowing about rosin caused Sherlock some embarrassment, but John only thought this endearing.

Once Sherlock was equipped with everything he needed, he raised the violin once more, and entered into a kind of beautiful frenzy. He played the instrument for much of the day, to the delight of many visitors and artists at the festival.

When he did take breaks from playing the instrument, Sherlock received advice from some of the musicians at the festival, and learned the basics for many techniques that he could rehearse later. He was a sponge of information, asking every violinist he could find about various songs and skills.

Absorbing so much information about his instrument, and playing for the enjoyment of so many people, Sherlock smiled with joy all the time, floating through the festival grounds with a lively spirit.

It was awfully, ruthlessly unfair. John could hardly control himself when his servant was so happy and beautiful.

Eventually, the enrapturing aura of excitement around Sherlock and his violin became too much for John to resist. Feeling an irresistible desire to be alone with his servant, John proclaimed that they ought to find a room to stay in. His obedient servant agreed, naturally.

As he had many times before, John led the way to the inn and acquired such a room. It was a place that John had stayed in before, having journeyed through this city a number of times. Looking around at the furnishings and finally settling his gaze on his loyal servant, John decided that the room had never felt more comfortable than it did when Sherlock was there.

John felt a sudden, fierce delight to be alone with his servant, but he tried to calm himself. Acting casually, as a self-possessed king ought to, he calmly took a seat on a chair. “It looks like I have another reason to keep you around, Sherlock,” he said. “I’ll have my own personal musician, now.”

“I’m still a novice sir,” Sherlock remarked, though he couldn’t hide a smile.

“I would keep you anyway, of course.” John almost cringed when he heard himself say these precise words. Even when he was trying to act casually, it seemed, some of his inexplicable possessiveness slipped through.

Sherlock started placing some of their things around the room. “I serve you in few ways, sir. I will be grateful if I can make music for you.”

“You do a lot for me, Sherlock. You cook and clean, you mend clothes, and, well,” John added, not being able to help himself, “you serve me very well in bed.”

“I, um, thank you.” Sherlock very intently cleaned his violin at that moment. “That is gratifying. I can’t serve you in the one way you need most, though.”

“What is that?”

“Oh, nothing sir.”

John stood up from his chair. “What’s the way you can’t serve me?”

Sherlock hesitated. “It’s nothing, sir.”

He wanted to press further, but Sherlock looked very uncomfortable. “It’s okay, Sherlock,” John said, hoping to put his servant at ease again. He could find out what the problem was later, when Sherlock was ready to talk about it. “A servant doesn’t have to tell their master everything.”

“Thank you, sir.” Sherlock still fidgeted from some unknown discomfort. “May I, um,” he said quickly, “Is there anything I can do for you?”

The king thought about how he could help put Sherlock at ease. “Actually, yes. Sit right there, Sherlock.” Sherlock obeyed as John guided him to the chair that the king had just vacated. “You know,” John continued, “I liked it when you played the violin, but I like all the music you make.” Affectionately, he kissed Sherlock’s forehead. “When you cry out for me in bed, that’s a beautiful sound.”

Sherlock clasped his hands tightly, betraying some of his remaining shyness, though a clear smile adorned his face, an enraptured expression like the one he had when he had played the violin. “You are very kind, sir.”

This compliment was more than John deserved, and as much as he loved being admired by his servant, John could not ethically accept such praise. “I’m not so kind, Sherlock. When everyone was listening to your music, I had the urge to take you way, so I could have your music all to myself. I suppose that’s what I did, by bringing you to this room.”

“I am happy to play for you, sir.”

“Don’t forgive me just like that, Sherlock. I know it’s wrong, to think like that. Everyone should be able to enjoy your violin. Oh, I’m losing hold of myself with you around. But there’s some music I do mean to keep to myself.” He leaned in closer, and let his hand drift down to Sherlock’s hips. “May I?”

“You want to… touch me, sir, right now?” Sherlock asked, surprised.

“I want to bring you off, and hear the music you make while you give yourself to me.” The king’s hand idly stroked Sherlock’s knee. “Do I have your permission?”

Sherlock shivered. “Oh, sir, yes, sir…”

“Thank God,” John murmured, and at least he could give in to that flaring passion in him for Sherlock. He lifted Sherlock’s tunic and pulled down his servant’s breeches, enjoying how Sherlock’s breaths became shorter from excitement.

John anchored himself with a knee to lean over Sherlock’s lap, and he kissed his servant’s forehead again. He loved Sherlock so much.

“Don’t be shy, Sherlock.” All it took was for John’s hand to rest on Sherlock’s ache to make his servant whimper. “That’s it, make music for me.”

Sherlock keened. “Y-Your Majesty, I’m sorry, I don’t have a voice that’s handsome and rough like yours…”

“Your voice is the most elegant sound I’ve ever heard.” John began to pump Sherlock’s silky length.

With desperation, Sherlock whimpered again.

“I’ve always loved your voice, Sherlock.”

This time, Sherlock’s whimper was so intense that it was almost a sob.

“Sherlock?” John said again, with a note of concern.

“When you said you said you loved me, s-sir. Even if you didn’t mean it… it was the most wonderful thing I’ve ever heard…”

“Oh, Sherlock. I meant it.”

Sherlock gasped sharply. “Sir?”

“I do love you, Sherlock.” John knew it was a foolish thing to admit, but he couldn’t keep it secret any longer, not when he longed to give all his love to his servant. Giving in to all his feelings, John treated Sherlock with firmer strokes.

Shuddering, Sherlock cried, “Oh, sir!”

“Just like that, Sherlock, scream for me.”

“Y-Your Majesty!”

“Scream my name, Sherlock.”

“S-Sir…?”

If John was going to abandon his good sense enough to admit his love, then he might as well get all that he wanted, while he still could. “My name, scream it loud, Sherlock, just this once. I don’t want to hear anything but you crying my name.”

There was a brief hesitation, but it did not last long under the king’s steady hand. “Oh, J-John…”

“Louder, love…”

“John!”

John held Sherlock and murmured softly to him as the beautiful servant finished in the king’s grip. There was a raging ache in his own trousers, but John did not want to bother with that now. He simply wanted to hold Sherlock.

It was the least John could do, when he had just done the cruelty of telling Sherlock he loved him, as well as the bit about John’s name. He only hoped that Sherlock would forgive him, when circumstances forced them apart, as they someday must.

~~

Now that John had admitted his love for Sherlock, he found it more difficult than ever to spend even a single moment away from his dear servant. He kept very near to Sherlock as they explored more of the art festival together. The king wanted to always stand by his servant, to guide him through this foreign city and to be able to protect him at moment’s notice.

He wasn’t sure if Sherlock loved him in return, or if Sherlock, with his lack of experience in this world, knew what it meant to be in love. In any case, Sherlock wanted to stay with the king, by his side, and that was enough for John.

Eventually, the two of them wandered into an area on the festival grounds where numerous paintings were displayed on tables, racks and stands. John looked between each of the paintings, which reminded him of some pieces he had seen in many noble houses.

This was not a field in which he had expertise, though he saw that there were similarities between the works of each individual artist. However, across all the pieces, there was great variety in size and style. John didn’t personally like all the works himself, but he supposed that everybody had different tastes.

Sherlock, as usual, was fascinated by what they saw. One of the pieces especially seemed to catch Sherlock’s attention.

John walked over to where Sherlock was standing, gazing at a painting that depicted a mother holding her baby. “That’s a nice painting,” the king said.

“Yes,” Sherlock said quietly.

It was a nice enough piece, done in a realistic style by a competent hand. The hues were light and soft, conveying a gentle, peaceful feeling.

Taking a closer look at the pigment, John wasn’t sure what was so great about the painting, but if Sherlock liked it, then that was enough reason for John to like it, too.

“Is this the painting you like best?” John asked.

Sherlock took another long look at the painting of the mother and child, and then looked around, glancing at the other paintings on display.

Certainly, there were many to choose from, and a great deal of them were not all that different from the realistic style of the painting of the mother and baby, at least not as far as John could tell. He still wasn’t sure why Sherlock would prefer that one to the others.

“I wouldn’t say that, sir. But I do find it interesting.” Perhaps Sherlock liked the soft feeling of the painting? That would make sense. John knew very well that Sherlock was soft in many ways.

“It does suit you, in a way,” John remarked.

Sherlock smiled a little. “Which of these paintings do you like best, sir?”

That was an unexpected question. John hadn’t considered any of the paintings that much. Like Sherlock had, John glanced around the gallery of paintings, though he gave up on it when his eyes came across the pretty servant with curly hair and sparkling eyes. “It’s hard to think much of any of them,” John admitted, “when I can just look at you.”

A pink hue glowed in Sherlock’s cheeks, accentuating the fairness of his skin. To John, who had seen many things in the world that others called beautiful, this servant was a living, breathing embodiment of beauty.

“Can I ask you something else, sir?” requested the alluring servant.

“Absolutely,” John said, without hesitation. “Do you want the painting after all?” He would happily purchase the painting for Sherlock. He would give his servant anything.

“No, sir. It is kind of you to offer, but, um, there’s something else I would like.”

“What is it?” John asked.

Sherlock was blushing even more than he had been a moment ago. “I’d prefer to discuss it in private.”

An uninvited surge of want rushed through the king. He tried to ignore it; there was no reason to assume that Sherlock was thinking about anything salacious. If Sherlock only wanted to talk, then that was fine. In fact, John would like that very much. “That’s fine, Sherlock. We ought to return to the inn soon, anyway.”

It was a short walk to the inn, and they did not need to ask for directions, as John knew the way well. When they were inside the inn and back in their room, John encouraged Sherlock to take a seat on the bed. John also sat there.

John could see the familiar signs of Sherlock’s nervousness. The poor servant was shaking, and he wouldn’t look directly at the king.

“I, um…” The servant struggled to form words.

“Come here,” John said, pulling Sherlock into his arms. Sherlock easily gave in, and hummed pleasantly in the king’s hold. “There, that’s good, Sherlock.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Of course.” With a kiss on Sherlock’s cheek, John comforted his servant. “What did you want to ask me about?” There was a sharp tremor in his beloved maid. “Hey, it’s okay, Sherlock. Whatever it is, you can say it.”

After a moment of hesitation, Sherlock spoke. “I wish I could give you everything you want, sir.” Putting a hand over his belly, the servant sighed.

“You do give me everything I want, Sherlock.”

“I give you a few things, maybe. I provide a little company, and some… physical diversion, though I am inexperienced in bed.”

“You’re perfect, Sherlock. And not just in bed, though I couldn’t have asked for better.” John paused, to appreciate the small giggle from his servant. “Besides, you’re going to be my musician, aren’t you?”

“I suppose I am.”

“Well, there you are.” John grinned. “You give me everything I need. There’s nothing else I want.”

All mirth vanished from the servant. “Children,” the servant mumbled.

“What?”

“I can’t give you children.” Sherlock huffed, in resignation. “Isn’t it true, that you need an heir?”

Reluctantly, John said, “Well, that’s true enough.”

“I wish I could give you one, sir, but I haven’t found a way to make it happen… I hoped that I would find a way, but there isn’t a way, is there, sir? I’ve prayed, but nothing has happened…”

John noticed Sherlock’s hand bunching up the sheets on the bed. “I didn’t know this weighed so heavily on you.”

“I do think about it sometimes, sir, but you don’t need to worry. You don’t need to be concerned for my feelings.”

Lightly touching Sherlock’s hand on the bed, encouraging it to relax, John leaned in close to his servant. “I know you can’t have children, but that’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. If only I could do that, I…” Suddenly, with a burst of courage, Sherlock turned to the king. “Sir, can I take you in my mouth?”

John was stunned by the question. “Really?”

“Um, if it’s all right with you. And this time, sir, don’t hold back.” As had sometimes happened before, the courage that Sherlock had briefly been able to summon was already dissipating. Staring down at the floor, Sherlock mumbled, “I want to swallow your seed, sir. Maybe then I can give you the baby you want, somehow.”

That devastated John like a splash of cold water. “Oh, Sherlock. No, that’s not why I want you. You don’t need to give me a baby.”

“But it’s what you want, and besides, if I give you a child, I’ll always be connected to you, in at least that way.”

John’s grasp on Sherlock’s hand was no longer light. “Sherlock, you’re in my heart. Having a child with you isn’t going to make that any more legitimate. I want you, baby or no.”

Sherlock said nothing, but continued to stare at the floor.

“Sherlock?”

“Sir… Could I have your seed, anyway?”

The king wasn’t sure what to think of that. “I told you, you don’t have to do anything for my sake.”

“No, sir. If you truly do want me, even if I can’t give you a baby, then will you give me your seed if I ask for it?” A half-hearted chuckle came from Sherlock. “Let me at least pretend that I can serve you as I should, please? It’s nice if only to imagine giving you an heir. And anyway, I really do want to do it for you.”

For not the first time, John was touched by how much Sherlock wanted to serve him. “Sherlock,” he whispered.

Submissively, the servant stood up from the bed, and kneeled before his master. “Please, sir. Will you spread your legs for me?” Nervously, he bit his lip. “Oh, I shouldn’t ask you that, should I?”

“My God, Sherlock,” John whispered. He knew it wasn’t decent to accept such an offer from his beloved servant. But how could he possibly resist? “Do as you like, Sherlock, you can do anything.”

Nodding, Sherlock touched John’s trousers. “I liked what we did at the fortress, sir,” he murmured. “Maybe when I get good at taking you like this, you can tie me up while I do it? You could satisfy yourself with my mouth while I’m bound for you.”

“Lord above, Sherlock…” That was one image that didn’t help John resist this at all.

With John’s help, Sherlock was able to undo the fastening of the king’s trousers. John heard his servant speak, though he was speaking very quietly under his breath. “Maybe this time, I’ll bear your child, God willing.”

Heavy guilt inundated John. “I put that burden on you, didn’t I? I talked about heirs and all that…”

“That’s understandable, it is your duty, isn’t it? I know about duty.”

“Do you mean that this is your duty, getting on your knees for me?”

“No, sir, I want to do this. If it pleases you for me to serve you this way, then I want to do this. You do want this?”

“Oh, Sherlock, yes…”

“I’m only sorry I can’t do more.”

“Sherlock, we’ll find a way around that. Maybe I don’t need an heir.”

Sherlock said nothing, but finished freeing John’s thick need from the confines of the king’s clothes, and at once, closed his mouth around it. John shook, restraining himself as best he could, but his resolve quickly weakened.

“Oh… Sherlock…”

It was impossible for John to look away from what Sherlock was doing for him. Those pink lips of his servant looked so beautiful around his length. Sherlock tasted him, sucked him, and moaned around him. It thrilled John to know that Sherlock would do this for John, and would find pleasure in it.

Sherlock was truly such an enthusiastic, pretty maid. He served John so well. The king couldn’t last long at all.

When he sensed his end approaching, John muttered a warning to Sherlock. Then the king came, and Sherlock did not move away. Although he could not take much of John’s essence, the sweet, eager servant was able to take some of it, and he seemed to do so gladly. To see Sherlock swallow even a bit of himself only sent the king further over the edge.

As John recovered, Sherlock helped him dress again, as if he were any servant humbly dressing his master.

“Thank you, Sherlock,” John said softly.

“Sir… If you want to have a child with someone else…”

John shuddered, and the reaction was not caused by a pleasant sensation this time. “No, I don’t want that.”

“But then sir, what will you do, without siring an heir?”

The king sighed. “I don’t know, Sherlock.”

Respectfully, Sherlock rested his head on his master’s knee. He didn’t demand an answer from his master. It was as if he would accept any decision the king made. John wouldn’t be surprised if that were the case.

John would have to decide what to do. He did not want to fail Sherlock or his kingdom.

It was time to stop putting this off. He had to think of a way to stay faithful to Sherlock, and to provide his kingdom with an heir that it would accept.

Oh, but it was so terribly hard to think, when Sherlock cuddled his knee like that. His mind filled with thoughts of keeping Sherlock in this room, and keeping him happy here. Perhaps Sherlock wanted intimate attention, after seeing to his master in such a fashion?

John took a deep breath, calming the intensity of his feelings somewhat. Sherlock probably needed a respite after doing what he had just done. The king had to be a charming, chivalrous, patient master for his servant.

It could no longer be denied that he loved Sherlock. He had for a long time. Even if he had not fallen in love with the servant immediately, certainly his feelings had been strong from the start, and had grown quickly. He adored his inquisitive, gentle, fair-skinned, curly-haired servant.

Truthfully, John would have been grateful just to have Sherlock’s friendship on this journey, even if John would have been kept up at night by tempting visions of the pretty servant who had looked so beautiful and out of place in a storage room for weapons, at the tournament.

Suddenly, an idea occurred to the king.


	9. The Garden

John had journeyed with his servant through many notable places, though sometimes the most incredible moments did not occur in front of great monuments or in lively crowds, but instead on the road. The king enjoyed driving the royal caravan, which glistened proudly with red and gold, with Sherlock at his side. Sometimes they would talk about the new sights Sherlock had seen, or what he thought of this diverse world; other times, John would drive, Sherlock would sit by him, and they would simply listen to the rolling of caravan wheels and the trotting of horse feet as they watched the stones and grasslands pass them by.

Presently, their convoy was voyaging down a humble road that was surrounded on both sides by lush trees and bushes. Little else could be seen in any direction. It would have seemed like a comfortable, private place, if not for the rest of the vehicles behind the king’s caravan.

John had thought more about the idea that had come to him, an idea that might solve his problems, and he wanted to discuss his plans with Sherlock. However, there was some chance that the people behind them would overhear something—even now, John could hear some chatter from the caravan just behind them, not that he cared what was being said—and that could be disastrous.

In truth, John knew that he could speak to Sherlock in a lowered voice, but in any case, he did not want to bother his dear servant, who glanced at the tall trees and dense bushes all around them with amazement. It was likely that Sherlock had never seen a forest like this one before. The two of them could talk about important matters later.

Sherlock was so beautiful when he found wonder in the world, and his joy made the road look more beautiful to John, too. Would John ever cease to be so greatly affected by Sherlock’s excitement? The king supposed, with a full heart and fond smile, that he would see every day as an exciting adventure as long as he was with Sherlock. The pretty servant breathed life into John’s world whenever he gasped with surprise and peered with curiosity at a new discovery.

“Is that true, sir?” Sherlock asked.

Startled, John turned to his servant for a moment. “How did you know what I was thinking?”

“Oh, um, I didn’t. I was just wondering about what those nobles were saying.”

“Huh?”

“I… Um, I overheard some nobles speaking from another caravan,” Sherlock said. “I assumed you heard them too… But I suppose you didn’t? Of course, you’re too noble to eavesdrop on people, sir.”

John laughed. “Oh, Sherlock, I’m not too noble for that. I was just too busy thinking about you to bother listening to them.”

“You were thinking about me?” Sherlock asked.

“I often am,” John responded, without hesitation. “I was thinking about how beautiful you are, and how happy you make me.”

“O-Oh,” Sherlock stammered, tilting his head down, hiding a smile in his shy, adorable way.

It was a thrill for the king to make his servant feel admired. Sherlock was a miracle and deserved to be extolled as one. “In fact, Sherlock, you’d make me really happy if you leaned on my shoulder.”

A modest, unassuming voice asked, “Really?”

This response made John pause. How absurd, that Sherlock had to ask that question! They had done so much together, and indeed Sherlock had often leaned on John as they drove, yet Sherlock still sounded surprised and flattered whenever John offered his shoulder. “Of course,” John stated patiently, happy to reassure his servant. Feeling bold, he added, “Having you touching me will give me something nice to think about.”

After failing to suppress a giggle, Sherlock murmured, “If it would make you happy, sir.”

Sherlock nudged closer, and carefully leaned on John’s shoulder, slowly resting his weight on the king’s arm.

The feel of Sherlock on his shoulder felt so right. “That’s much better,” the king declared.

There was another small giggle from his pretty servant.

“Now,” John said, “what did you overhear?”

“Sir?”

“From the other caravan, I mean.”

“Oh. I, um, I didn’t hear anything.”

“Sherlock,” John said softly. “It’s okay.”

“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop on them, sir. But there weren’t any other sounds and… they were loud, and I…”

“Sherlock? You just overheard some people talk. That doesn’t seem so bad to me.”

“It’s a bad habit, sir. I’ve heard many conversations that I shouldn’t have.”

“Servants are often in a position to overhear things, aren’t they?”

“Yes, sir, but they should know better. There are times when I’ve eavesdropped on others for no better reason than I was bored. Invariably, it gets me in trouble.”

“Well, let’s just keep it between us? Lucky you, you’ve got me for a master, and I couldn’t care less. In fact, it works well for me. I don’t have to listen to boring nobles if I have someone to do that for me!”

Sherlock snickered at that, which made John chuckle, too. It seemed that Sherlock was perpetually raising the king’s spirits.

“So, Sherlock, what did they say?”

“Well, sir, they were talking about you. Nothing bad—they merely wondered if the king would be settling down in the castle very soon, for good this time.” Sherlock’s voice became softer. “They thought that you might miss your queen, and would spend some time with her.”

Abruptly, John’s eyes narrowed, and his hands tightened on the reins of the horse. “Did they?” he muttered, irritably. The king considered stopping the caravan and having a word with these nobles who had talked of what they knew so little about, but he did not trust himself to be civil.

“It was conjectured that you might not travel so much anymore,” the servant continued, his voice so quiet that it was almost inaudible, “when you sire children.”

After a deep breath to calm himself, or else he might do something he might regret to those nobles behind them after all, John spoke. “What made them think an heir was on the way?”

“They thought it inevitable, sir.”

“Don’t listen to them, Sherlock. They don’t know anything about me. Why did they think all that would happen so soon, anyway?”

“Well, sir, they said that we have entered your kingdom.”

“Oh.” Having been caught up in thoughts of Sherlock, John hadn’t considered that. He looked around at the trees and shrubs on the sides of the road, and indeed, they seemed familiar. “I hadn’t even noticed. Right, this forest does lie within my domain. I’ve been through here many times. Funny that I didn’t notice,” John commented, flashing a smile at his servant. “Well, I might be a little distracted, with you on my arm like this.”

“Sir,” Sherlock said, affectionately. “I’m glad to finally be in your kingdom.”

“Glad that the journey is almost over?”

“No, sir. I’ve enjoyed living in this caravan with you, and seeing new places with you. But I like the feeling of being in your domain. Even if there comes a day when I must eventually find a new employer here, it will always make me happy to be one of your subjects.”

“You won’t ever have to find a new employer here.” John kissed the top of Sherlock’s hair, relishing the soft feel of his servant’s dark curls as Sherlock hummed appreciatively.

Like Sherlock, John was not particularly happy that the journey was almost finished. It had been a great pleasure to visit interesting places with Sherlock. John had seen it all before; despite that, he felt like he had seen it all for the first time.

For now, he wanted to appreciate the time they had left in the caravan, sitting side by side and watching the world pass by.

Eventually, the convoy stopped to rest, at a fresh stream that John was familiar with. There was also grass for the horses to eat. It was not yet midday, but this was the best place to rest for the night, so the members of their convoy quickly made themselves comfortable.

After a while, it was time to feed the horses. Knowing that their horse would require more than just grass, John climbed into the caravan to pour some oats into a bucket. He found Sherlock already in the caravan, doing just that.

“Sir,” Sherlock said as he filled the bucket, “let me do it.”

The servant’s bravery touched John. He knew that Sherlock was wary of horses. “Are you sure?”

“I may not be able to steer a horse, but I can at least feed it. I want to be useful.”

“You are useful,” John said, but it struck him as insufficient. “You don’t have to do anything with the horse. I want you around anyway.”

“I appreciate that, sir. I do want to try.”

The determined servant continuously amazed John. “Then I’ll support you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock gave him a brisk nod, and then, scurrying, Sherlock placed the bucket before their horse. John had typically used this particular bucket to feed the horse, and had placed it at the same spot in front of their caravan; similarly, Sherlock positioned the bucket at exactly the same location. The king’s darling maid lit up in triumph when the horse ate its food.

“You did that so well,” John remarked, full of sincerity. His servant had become very courageous.

Sherlock blushed. “You just have to be consistent,” he said modestly.

John was very proud of Sherlock, and he was struck with the urge to pull the servant closer and hold him tight, though he had to consider the presence of the rest of the convoy. They could retreat into the caravan, but they had just spent a long time riding it. Some walking around seemed like a good idea to the king. Perhaps he could hold Sherlock close to him in the forest, where nobody would bother them.

Taking a look at the other members of their group, John knew that, like those nobles Sherlock had overheard, many of them were probably speculating about what the king would do at the end of this journey. There were many people in this convoy who would not understand what Sherlock meant to the king. If John and his servant went for a walk, they would merely think that the king wished to stretch his legs. They would have no conception that it was time spent between a man and his beloved.

John noticed that, fortuitously, Sherlock was eyeing the trees a little distance away. It seemed that he also wished to wander through the woods.

“Do you want to see the forest, Sherlock?”

“I’ve never been in a forest like that. Is that safe?”

John placed his hand on his sword hilt. “You're safe with me.”

“Of course. I should have known that. My master is a strong warrior.” Sherlock sounded pleased, and John was pleased as well to hear Sherlock say so.

“In any case, I know the forest well. The convoy will be stopped here for a while, so we should be able to take a short walk.”

Once the horse was fed and left under the supervision of others in the convoy, John left with Sherlock to explore. John led the way, though Sherlock was not far behind.

As they continued, the servant became more interested in the forest around them, and before long, Sherlock was ahead of John, jumping from one point of interest to the next, examining moss and twigs and stones.

John felt a warm flicker in his chest, feeling that this beautiful spirit who was fluttering about the forest was more like a woodland fairy than a mortal servant.

After they had walked for a while, Sherlock called out. “Sir, I found something!”

John quickly marched to where Sherlock was bouncing on his feet. “Yes, Sherlock?” the king asked, smiling.

Sherlock picked up a small object from the ground, shook the thing to free it of some dirt, and presented it to John. It was a small, dull, curved blade of metal with a curved neck that was attached to a wooden handle.

“A trowel,” John noted. “How did that end up here?”

Eyeing the tool with curiosity, Sherlock said, “I don’t know. There’s hardly a need for a gardening tool here. Interesting.”

“Hmm. Well, good find, Sherlock.”

Sherlock smiled brightly, and then moved to put the thing in his satchel.

“Wait,” John said.

“Should I leave it, sir? I merely thought it was interesting…”

“That’s fine, we can take it. I don’t see why not, since it was probably forgotten here. It looks a bit heavy, though. I’ll carry it for you.”

“Oh,” Sherlock murmured, pleased. The trowel was handed to the king. “Your chivalry is commendable.”

John was happy if he seemed like a chivalrous knight to his servant—even if he wouldn’t have described himself precisely that way. He dropped the trowel into his pocket. “That’s good of you to say.”

“I mean it, sir. You are chivalrous and kind. You have been kind to me, throughout this whole journey.”

“There were times when I was selfish,” John admitted. “Perhaps a kind master wouldn’t have taken advantage of his servant like I did.”

With a charming pink blush, Sherlock said, “It seemed to me that my happiness and comfort was continuously at the forefront of your mind. It was I who offered myself, sir. I’ve truly enjoyed all of the time we’ve spent with each other.”

“I’m very glad to hear that.”

“It’s true, sir.” Sherlock turned away, glancing at the brown bark of a tree. “I wish this journey would never end. Then we could be together forever.”

“Sherlock.” John reached forward and touched Sherlock’s arm for a moment, glad to see his servant look back at him. “Everything will be all right. I have a plan, Sherlock. I’ve been thinking about it. In fact, I wanted to talk to you about it as soon as we were completely alone. I was so astounded by your bravery with the horse, and your energy here in the forest, that I forgot until now! I told you that you were distracting, didn’t I?”

His precious servant laughed, a pure and charming sound that seemed a lot like lovely birdsong in this forest. “Thank you, sir. What is your plan?”

“I’m not going to sire any children. Instead,” John proclaimed, “I’m going to will the throne to someone based on their merit. I’ll find someone who is capable of ruling the kingdom.”

“Can you do that?” Sherlock asked, astonished.

“To be honest, I don’t know.” John knew that there was no certainty that the rest of the kingdom would abide by such a decision. “But I’m going to try. I might be able to make it work.”

“How would you find such a person, sir?”

“Well, I’m still thinking about it, but… I thought I might gain the peoples’ support if I, well…” John smirked. “I thought it could be decided by a tournament.”

“A tournament,” Sherlock repeated, with a hint of a smirk himself.

“That’s right, it would be a tournament for the throne. I’m sure you know where I got the idea from, though it wouldn’t just be a test of who is the strongest. I would find out who is the wisest—who would make the best ruler. I’m not sure how I would do that, but I’ll figure something out. It just might be possible.”

The smirk on Sherlock’s face lingered for a moment, but then it dropped away, into a much less happy expression. “It’s a fine plan, sir,” the servant said, though he did not sound thrilled.

“What’s wrong? Don’t you like the plan, Sherlock?”

Sherlock nodded, but he said nothing.

“I know I have a lot of details to work out, but what do you think about the general idea?” Touching Sherlock’s arm again, and leaving his hand there, John asked, “Is something wrong?”

“It truly is a fine plan, sir. I’m just thinking too much, as usual.”

“Well, what is it you’re thinking?”

“I’m not sure how to say it.” After taking a moment, apparently to consider his words, Sherlock shook his head. “There is no good way to say it. I’m failing you, sir. I should be able to sire your children for you. It is my failure that necessitates this plan.”

“No, Sherlock,” John swiftly protested, “that’s not how it is. I care about you, children or no. None of it is your fault.”

Sherlock stared helplessly at the ground, fingering his satchel nervously. “If you say so,” he said, in an unconvincing manner. He seemed to be thinking a lot, and gave the appearance of one trapped in his thoughts.

Moving his hand down to his servant’s, John turned his head towards the forest. “Come on, let’s keep moving. Maybe walking some more would be a good idea.” John started again, and Sherlock obediently followed, holding his hand. “Good, just like that. I’m very glad to be walking with you, Sherlock.”

Although he was still quiet, Sherlock’s grip on John’s hand was tight.

“There you go,” John said. “It’s all right.”

~~

“Interesting,” Sherlock uttered, something ahead catching his attention.

It was the first word that Sherlock had spoken in some time. They had been walking together through the forest, hand in hand. John had tried to reassure Sherlock, to tell his sweet maid that he was certainly not a failure, and Sherlock had nodded a few times. Regardless, Sherlock still seemed to be working through his worries. Eventually they had fallen into silence, sharing support where the palms touched, and moving forward together, as John hoped they always would.

At Sherlock’s sudden remark, John looked ahead as well, and instantly saw what must have interested his servant. There was a short wall made of stone pieces, nearly hidden by some overgrown bushes. The wall was evidently old and worn, but it could be seen stretching on for some distance, with only one or two complete breaks. From where they stood, John could tell that there was some kind of clearing behind the low wall, past a few more trees.

With a burst of energy, which was in sharp contrast to the melancholy he had been walking with before, Sherlock shot forward to investigate the clearing, and John happily followed, as grateful as ever that Sherlock could so quickly become fascinated with a mystery. They stepped onto the short wall and over it, entering the glade just beyond.

The clearing was not as empty as it had seemed from afar. There were no tall trees, but instead there were different kinds of flowers strewn about the ground, as well as a few benches, chairs and tables in various spots. Stones placed in lines on the ground suggested separate plots, but the plants had long ago crossed over their boundaries, and now flowers and grasses of different kinds could be seen everywhere.

“It looks like an abandoned garden,” John said. “I had no idea this was here.” He had never heard of any kind of garden being kept in this forest. “Now we know why the trowel was around, at least.”

Sherlock stared at the multitude of flowers, stunned. John released Sherlock’s hand so that Sherlock could inspect what he saw. The servant stepped around a number of the plots, lightly touching some purple flowers. John was reminded of when Sherlock had admired the flowers at the temple they had visited earlier on their journey.

In fact, sniffing the flowers as he did and jumping about the garden, Sherlock reminded John of the bees they had seen at the temple.

“Are you a fairy, or a bee, Sherlock?” John wondered aloud, grinning.

“Sir?”

“Oh, it’s only that you look so right here, in the forest, with the flowers. I’ve long thought you were a magical creature. You’re my pretty bee, aren’t you?”

“Well, u-um,” Sherlock stuttered, adorably.

“Hah, did I say too much?” John sat on one of the old benches, and was relieved that the thing felt sturdy under him. “Sorry. Go on, keep looking at the flowers.”

“I’d rather sit with you, I think. If that’s all right.”

John welcomed this of course, and Sherlock took his place next to the king. Touching Sherlock’s curly hair, John was getting his fill of admiring his pretty servant, so that he noticed instantly when Sherlock’s thoughts started to turn sour again.

“Sir,” Sherlock said haltingly, a moment later, but he didn’t resume from there.

John kissed Sherlock on the cheek, feeling his stubble scrape against Sherlock’s soft, pale skin. “My poor Sherlock. You’re still upset, aren’t you?”

“I, um,” Sherlock muttered. “This is like when we first sat together, at the tournament. Isn’t it? Sitting on a bench like this. I was thinking similar things, then. That I was insufficient. And you are a great king! Why should you want me around?”

Placing a hand on Sherlock’s cheek, where he had kissed his servant, John caressed him lightly. “Someday, Sherlock, I’ll have you convinced of how much I cherish you.”

Sherlock shuddered under his touch, and made a soft, pleasant hum. “Sir… There are limits, though, aren’t there? Even if your plan succeeds. I am a servant. You are a king.” Sherlock sighed sadly. “There are limits.”

“What limits, Sherlock? Nobody else needs to know how much we matter to each other.”

“Well sir, a king can’t love a servant.” Leaning just slightly away, Sherlock murmured, “After all, that’s why you couldn’t have meant what you said in the fortress.”

These words struck John like a heavy blow. Sherlock was right. The fortress was where John had made that awful mistake. While trying to help Sherlock relax, he’d inadvertently done the same to himself, too much so, and had let those tempting, tortuous words slip from his lips. In the inn near the art festival, John had admitted that he’d meant those words, but it was only natural that Sherlock would doubt that, as they carried a promise that no reputable king could keep to a servant.

Sherlock didn’t sound bitter about it. He sounded accepting, resigned, and that made it all the worse.

“I meant it,” John whispered.

John turned Sherlock’s face back towards him completely, and saw Sherlock’s eyes sparkling gloriously.

“I love you, Sherlock,” the king said, done with caring about what was expected of a king.

“I love you, too, sir,” Sherlock replied, his voice very soft.

John could not resist leaning in and kissing his servant just then. They took their time, and shared a few more, lighter kisses.

“This is a forgotten, secret place,” John mused, “and we have it all to ourselves. Would you call me John, at least while we’re here?”

This surprised Sherlock, but his surprise was overcome by sheer joy. “John.”

John closed his eyes, appreciating the sound. “It’s good to hear that again.”

“I was careless, when I said it the first time…”

“You mean, when I got so jealous at that tavern, that I brought you to the caravan just to keep you to myself?” John asked, gratified when his servant blushed and giggled. “It meant so much to me, to hear you cry my name like that. And then the second time, I asked you to call me by name, didn’t I? You made it sound like music.”

“I did like making music for you,” Sherlock said, coyly.

“It’s absurd of me, really, to get so jealous.”

“I don’t mind,” Sherlock replied playfully. “After all, it’s only fair that you have flaws to balance my own bad habits, isn’t it?”

John chuckled, full of happiness. He was so hopeful and in love.

Hope truly was in the air in that grove. The king was hoping that he could find an heir through a tournament, and he was sure that Sherlock shared in that hope. John was going against tradition with his plan, and in the end, success would depend on whether or not he had the support of his people.

In this garden with his servant, John didn’t want to think about politics, though. For the time being, they were free to enjoy the flowers and trees around them.

Sherlock spent some more time sniffing different specimens, and John found a bare spot of stone wall that struck him with inspiration. He stepped in front of it, and got to work.

“What are you carving?” Sherlock asked, stepping closer to where John was kneeling. As Sherlock had noticed, John was carving letters onto the stone with a dagger that he carried.

“I’m writing our names here,” John answered. Being almost done, he stepped back and let Sherlock look at the carving.

Sherlock ran his fingers over the cuts. “There are more than two names here. What does it say, sir?”

Suddenly, it occurred to John how soppy his writing was, but he wasn’t about to lie to Sherlock. “It’s a bit sentimental, so don’t laugh. It says, ‘Sherlock and John, forever.’ So at least this place will know what we mean to each other.”

“That sounds very agreeable,” Sherlock said. His voice quavered somewhat, and he quickly wiped at his eyes. “You, um,” he said, gathering himself, “you put my name first? The king’s name ought to go first.”

When John had first heard Sherlock’s name, he’d said it was a lovely one, and he’d been telling the truth. John adored the name; it suited his servant very well. “I like it this way. I like how your name looks.”

“I like how yours looks too, sir… John.”

John was delighted by this, and kissed Sherlock again, who wrapped his arms around the king.

Soon, it was time for them to depart. They needed to return to their convoy, and eventually, to their journey’s ultimate destination.

Yet they didn’t make it very far before Sherlock suddenly stopped in his tracks, leaned against a tree, and started crying.

“Oh,” John exclaimed, surprised, but quickly moving to be next to his servant.

“I’m sorry, sir. I was just thinking—I want to go back to the garden. Not to the convoy. I want to stay in the place where you can say you love me.”

“Oh, Sherlock, I’ll keep saying it to you, I promise.” John took Sherlock into his arms, and let his precious maid cry on his shoulder. “I love you.”

Sherlock had many tears to cry, and John was ready to wait for all of them. Sometimes, Sherlock whimpered, and then John would caress his arm soothingly, and hum to him.

Once he started crying less and calming down somewhat, Sherlock started humming with him. Only then did John remember where the tune was from. It was from the choir of monks, in the temple.

He had relished the time he spent there with Sherlock, but this time, John wasn’t reminded of watching his servant dance amongst the bees and candles. No, at this moment, holding Sherlock close to him, with his dear servant so vulnerable in his arms, John was reminded of the ritual bed, the place where he’d first had Sherlock under him, where he’d claimed his servant against all his better judgment.

From the beginning, John had tried to resist the pull he felt to his servant—there had been nights when he had been kept from sleep for a long time by his terrible longing—but he had failed miserably in that temple.

“This tune brings back memories,” John said, not sure if what he was feeling was nostalgia or guilt.

“Good memories,” Sherlock added, making John feel better. “It’s a shame I can’t be more like the woman was in your story.”

“Hmm?”

“The story about the monarch who claimed the woman he loved. She gave him children, didn’t she?”

“I’d forgotten about that.” For once, John was the one who was blushing. “This is going to sound ridiculous—I completely came up with that story. I didn’t know how to say that I wanted you, Sherlock. It didn’t have anything to do with children.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. That story was about one thing: how much I wanted you to be mine.”

Sherlock breathed against the king’s shoulder. “I’m yours. John.”

“My sweet Sherlock. I don’t take that lightly. It means a lot to me.”

“Even if nobody else will know it?”

“I will know it. And the garden knows it, too. This forest is in my kingdom, so we can come back here anytime. Whenever we do, that carving will still be there. And we’ll still have each other, too. So forget about everyone else, all right? If we make each other happy, then what else matters?”

“Then,” Sherlock murmured, “it really is okay if I can’t sire your children.”

“Yes, you can be certain of that.”

“I wanted to have your children. I truly did.”

“It’s okay, Sherlock. It’s all right.”

They stood there, embracing each other, for a few more minutes, and then John guided Sherlock through the forest, back to their convoy.

By then, the sun was setting, and the sky was becoming darker. John had no fear of the forest at night, but he noticed that Sherlock stayed a little closer to him than before.

“Don’t be scared, Sherlock. We’ll be fine. I have my sword, and the convoy probably scared off a lot of the animals around here. We should be able to see the campfires soon.”

“I’m fine, John. I have my champion to protect me.”

Sherlock simpered, and John fancied he could light their way himself with the pride he felt burning in his chest.

It was true that they were leaving their secret garden behind, yet John knew that they would have their privacy again in the royal caravan, that vehicle that had been their home throughout this journey. John would get dressed in the loose, sleeveless shirt and trousers he slept in, and Sherlock would wear his cute sleeping gown and bonnet, and after a long day of walking through the woods, they would fall soundly asleep, Sherlock’s body under John’s solid arm, and John’s cheek against Sherlock’s dark curls.

Their journey was almost over, on their path through the forest as well as on their travels to John’s castle. Yet somehow, it didn’t feel to John like anything was ending. In fact, when the two of them spotted the campfires of their convoy, and made their way to the royal caravan that had conveyed them so far and brought them so close together, the king had just the opposite impression.


	10. The Throne

“Oh J-John, Your Majesty,” Sherlock moaned, arching up from the built-in bed of the caravan.

The king’s hands came to rest on Sherlock’s hips, keeping him in place. John loved to see and feel his servant writhing in pleasure under him. If John’s mouth had not been busy providing Sherlock with that feeling, the king would have told Sherlock how beautiful he was, and admired how the praise brightened Sherlock’s face.

Instead, John settled for adoring his enchanting servant as best he could in this intimate way, tasting Sherlock and giving him comfort.

There were muffled sounds of activity from outside the caravan. The group was supposed to leave soon, and the rest of the convoy was starting to pack up. John did not have very much time to satisfy his servant. Indeed, they were still both dressed for sleep, Sherlock in his gown and bonnet, and John in his loose shirt and trousers.

Determined to make the best of the time they had, John lifted Sherlock’s gown up just a bit more, so that he could see more of his exquisite servant as the king tasted him.

Sherlock trembled under John. “Oh, I love you, sir,” he gasped, moving eagerly under the encouragement of John’s mouth and hands.

John was uplifted, not only because of the wonderful thing Sherlock had just said to him, but because Sherlock followed John’s lead with so much trust. Whereas the king had broad shoulders and strong arms, his whole body being that of a warrior’s, Sherlock was slender, almost delicate. Sherlock was trusting John completely, and that trust made John feel heady with desire.

Pulling back and moving one of his hands to where his mouth had been, John spoke to Sherlock in a low, rough voice. “I love you, Sherlock.”

There was another, sharper gasp. Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered, and then stayed shut.

John wasn’t sure what that reaction meant. “Sherlock? Are you all right?” Concerned as always for the comfort of his sweet maid, John took his hands back.

“Please, s-sir, John, keep touching me,” Sherlock pleaded. He wiped at his eyes, but John spotted a little drop of water slip past, falling down his cheek.

The servant looked so vulnerable, shaking on the caravan bed and brought to tears. It was impossible for John to think of anything but being as caring and attentive as he could be for Sherlock. He started stroking Sherlock, firmly and steadily.

Sherlock made a high-pitched keen filled with longing. “My master,” he whimpered, “my master…”

John shouldn’t have been as stirred as he was when Sherlock called him that, but that didn’t change the fact that hearing Sherlock moan that title made John want to hold Sherlock close and never let him go.

“My master,” Sherlock said again, softly, as another tear fell down his face, “my master loves me.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” John murmured. “I love you so much.” He leaned down, kissing Sherlock’s hips and stomach, enjoying how this added to the gorgeous sounds that Sherlock made. “I want you to be mine. Are you mine, Sherlock?”

“Yes, oh, yes, Your Majesty,” Sherlock managed, his voice breaking. “I want to be your faithful maid, I want to be kept by my strong, g-generous king…”

Driven to heights of love and depths of lust, John growled, and not another moment passed before he had Sherlock between his lips again, and sucked him intently.

John felt blessed when Sherlock came, with an instinctive and yet still rather gentle movement, surrendering himself to his king. Energy dissipated from the servant’s body, leaving him helpless and out of breath. His cries softened, and he relaxed on the bed, allowing John to stroke him gently, to guide him through the sensations he felt.

“You did so well,” John told him, climbing up the bed so that he could lie at Sherlock’s side. He felt the softness of Sherlock’s hair, and when Sherlock made a cute little mewl, the smitten king leaned closer, touching the brown stubble of his cheek to Sherlock’s pale, smooth face. “My pretty servant.”

There was a tender look on Sherlock’s face as his dazed, slightly damp eyes found John, and the corners of his lips diffidently turned up in an endearing smile.

At that moment, John heard a door closing on a caravan nearby; Sherlock must have heard the same noise, as he made the lightest of annoyed groans, and started to lift himself from the bed.

Touching Sherlock lightly on his chest, over his gown, John encouraged him to stay lying for a bit longer.

“Sir? We’re running out of time, aren’t we?”

“We have enough time to lie here a bit longer,” John said, enjoying perhaps too much how it felt to have Sherlock in his bed.

“But,” Sherlock started, nervously at first, and forging on when John stroked his arm in a reassuring way, “then there won’t be enough time for me to see to your needs.”

“Don’t worry about that.” There could be no doubt that John had been physically stirred by sharing this intimacy with Sherlock, yet it was not the most important matter to John at the moment. “I’d rather lie with you like this for a bit longer.”

Hesitantly, Sherlock lied back down. “I feel like I should do something for you.”

“You’re doing so much for me right now.” Leaning over Sherlock, and admiring the blush that started to creep over his servant’s cheeks, John uttered, “though I’d also like a kiss, if you would like that as well, Sherlock.”

“I would like that very much, John.” Too timid to initiate the kiss, the servant smiled shyly. That was all right with John. In truth, it thrilled him to be Sherlock’s guide in any context, but especially in such intimate matters, of which Sherlock had known so little before he met the king.

Propping himself up with arms at either side of Sherlock’s face, John moved down, and kissed him. He meant to keep it mild and light, though he quickly deepened the kiss when Sherlock groaned blissfully. The servant’s soft lips were completely pliant and willing, which only added fuel to the flames of John’s yearning to possess his pretty maid.

John could feel the ache throbbing in his own trousers. He steadfastly ignored it, though it still added a hot, desperate edge to the kiss. Moreover, John could not resist one push of his body against Sherlock’s, doing more to demonstrate his need for his servant than to find any satisfaction.

“Oh,” Sherlock murmured. “Are you sure you don’t need…?”

John kissed him again. “It’s all right. Don’t worry about it.”

Bashfulness lowered Sherlock’s voice. “Of course. You do have excellent self-control. You are a competent, capable lover…”

“And you are the most enchanting creature my bed could ever have known,” John said, before Sherlock could doubt himself. Though he grew surer of himself over time, the servant was still sometimes beset by such doubts.

“Yet I can’t control myself as you do. When I’m close to you or I think of you, it’s so hard not to beg you to take me, in any way you like.”

John’s fortitude was sorely tested by that remark, but he held strong. “You don’t ever need to fight it,” he said. “If you are ever troubled by your needs, all you need do is tell me, and I will take care of you. It’s my pleasure.”

Sherlock beamed jubilantly at that, instilling conflicting feelings in John. He was not particularly proud of his possessive feelings, or the way he managed to make his selfishness sound like generosity, but as long as Sherlock was happy, then John supposed it was all fine.

At last, John removed himself from the bed. “It’s time for us to get going now. Time to get dressed.”

“Yes, sir.”

Reaching for some of his clothes, John said, “I love you, Sherlock. I won’t be able to say it very often outside of this caravan, so I want you to remember that.”

“I will, sir,” Sherlock replied, contentedly, making John feel a great deal of contentment as well.

They finally dressed then, and swiftly prepared their caravan for the next leg of their journey. As the convoy set off, Sherlock settled into his familiar place next to John, who directed the horse.

John took a glance at the map, and informed Sherlock that there was only one more town to visit before they reached the city that was their final destination. There wouldn’t be any points of interest very different from what they had seen already. Nonetheless, Sherlock had several questions, and John was happy to answer them.

While they drove on, through fresh air and past calming scenery of hills and streams, the desire that had been fuming inside of John fell gradually to a low, manageable simmer. He never forgot, however, that Sherlock was sitting right next to him, and he could not help having one or two private visions of what he might do with his beloved servant sometime soon.

After they had talked for a while, about the town they were about to pass through, and a bit about John’s kingdom, conversation turned towards John’s plan, the idea of hosting a tournament to find a worthy heir to the throne. Their voices became a bit more hushed.

“I had another idea, for my plan,” John said. “I want you to help me choose my heir. You’re so perceptive about things, and besides, I wouldn’t want to decide on anyone unless they had your approval.”

“You really would want my input, sir?”

“Definitely. I might test them on fighting or strategy, but you could see what kind of people they really are. Could you do that for me?”

“I would like to help.”

“Thanks, Sherlock. I still don’t know if this plan will work.”

“No matter what, you have my support, sir.”

Feeling encouraged, John smiled wide. “That’s all I need.”

The convoy visited the town, for a short period of time. Much of the convoy was eager to reach the city, and they only stayed long enough to gather the supplies that were needed for the last part of the journey. Some of the townspeople were excited to see the king’s caravan, but John tried his best to avoid them.

Perhaps he should have been more personable with his subjects, but the king was truthfully not quite ready to accept that the journey was coming to end and he would soon be back in his castle, where he may or may not get away with keeping his beloved servant.

Whether or not the king was ready to accept it, there soon came the day when they reached the gates of the city that John hailed from.

Their convoy was met with a warm welcome in the city. Nobles returned to their great houses, merchants unloaded their wares from faraway places, and there were even some bards who had joined the group at the festival, who now found audiences for their music.

John had anticipated a nice enough welcome by his people upon his return, though he had evidently underestimated the excitement that would fill the city. As the caravan rolled down city roads, he could hear people cheering for King John and his victory in the tournament that had been held in Sherlock’s town.

He had almost forgotten about winning that tournament. It hadn’t occurred to him that his people would be so proud of the accomplishment. He didn’t even think that they would have heard about it before the convoy had reached the city, but apparently the news had made the journey faster than the convoy had. Any monarch would have been fortunate to be viewed as a champion to be proud of, though John did not feel especially fortunate, as this meant that John would eventually have to make public appearances and accept the congratulations of his subjects.

John wanted to stay on the driver’s seat of the caravan, and linger in this little home where he had come to know his gentle servant, his greatest treasure, for as long as possible. At least his servant seemed fascinated by the city and the interest of the people in their king, so that helped John come to terms with reaching the end of this journey.

A small number of the convoy stayed outside the city, to travel to yet another location, yet for the most part the convoy gradually dispersed. Just a few others accompanied John’s caravan as, at last, they reached the castle.

After quickly greeting the servants and advisors who greeted him upon his return, John brought Sherlock into the castle, showing him where they would be living for the foreseeable future. John had a luxurious bedroom that had been maintained well during his absence.

There was also a separate room nearby for Sherlock, if he wanted it. A much humbler room, the place had been used by the king’s previous maid. She hadn’t been the cherished, beloved kind of maid that Sherlock was to John. She had simply cleaned and cooked and so forth.

At that time, John had been struggling to find joy in his life, and his unhappy moods had made him a reserved and unpleasant master. She had left John’s employment during the journey to the warrior’s tournament, so some of her things were left in the room. John had paid her decently in compensation for what she left behind in the castle. In truth, she hadn’t left much.

Instantly, the chest containing the abandoned belongings captured Sherlock’s attention. He opened the chest and rifled through the contents. John wasn’t sure what interested Sherlock so much about the stuff, since there wasn’t much other than simple clothes and tools there. His servant was often this way, though, and Sherlock’s boundless curiosity never failed to charm the king.

“I will have to make an address or two for the city,” John said, “and speak with my advisors. I’ve been gone for a while, and there will be a lot for me to catch up on.”

Still leaning into the chest, Sherlock nonetheless replied. “Are you going to ask them about your plan? About hosting a tournament to find someone worthy as an heir?”

“It would be too soon. I don’t intend to wait very long before I do that, though. In the meantime, you are free to look around this room, and my room too, of course. There are other servants outside if you need anything.”

Sherlock glanced up from the chest then, and graced the king with a smile. “Thank you, sir.”

John stepped closer to Sherlock for a moment, and embraced him. “I hope you’ll feel at home here, Sherlock.”

Leaning on John’s shoulder, Sherlock meekly raised his slender arms up to return the embrace. “My home is anywhere I can be with you, John.”

Closing his eyes, John prayed that they would be able to stay together here. He wondered how difficult it would be to keep their relationship secret from the rest of the castle, and from the rest of the kingdom. It was difficult enough to resist riding a horse into the middle of the city and proclaiming to the world that Sherlock was his! But what mattered most was that he had Sherlock, and that Sherlock would be happy in this place, with him.

~~

Greeting nobles, and merchants, and the whole city it seemed, John found himself recalling the people who had taken their time to congratulate him just after the tournament of warriors had ended. The formalities were as tedious now as they had been then. John recalled in particular how a group of princesses had spoken to him for what had seemed like an endless age directly after that tournament, especially since he had been eager to see once more the enchanting servant he had just met. Unfortunately, John had a duty to speak with such people, though he did not have to enjoy it.

There were some parties held to celebrate the king’s victory and return. He was not able to avoid these festivities, nor was he able to bring his servant along to any of them. Sherlock probably would have been even more bored than John if he had gone, in any case.

For several days, John was not able to spend much time with Sherlock. The king had many duties to attend to, and as a new servant, Sherlock also had to learn the customs of the castle.

John’s effects, and the simple items that Sherlock owned, were brought from the royal caravan to their rooms. It had not been very difficult for the king to move Sherlock’s things into the royal bedroom. He did this himself, in part because he did not want the other servants speculating about what Sherlock meant to the king, though he was also not keen on letting other people touch Sherlock’s belongings. John supposed that he was not always rational, where Sherlock was concerned.

Sometimes, sitting on his throne in the great hall, giving an audience to whoever it was, John imagined a similar throne next to his, where his consort could sit and rule over the kingdom with him. There had once been a second throne there; it had belonged to the queen, from whom he had long ago separated in all but name. It pained John that the person he had fallen in love with could not be at his side like that. He was comforted by the knowledge that Sherlock was somewhere in the castle, ready to serve the king as soon as he was called upon.

The king considered waiting a long time before bringing up his plan for the tournament, yet there was an advantage to posing the plan sooner. Public sentiment was on his side for the moment, and they were celebrating him for a tournament, of all things. It might not seem so strange to them that their king, who had found such success in a tournament, would wish to host one of his own, and for stakes that would have the whole kingdom chattering with excitement.

With this in mind, John carefully began discussing his plan with his advisors.

They were resistant at first, but they had already suspected that an heir would not be conceived—John did not explain anything beyond that, but the advisors knew the king and queen had never been able to conceive, and that was a convenient enough reason. After several long discussions throughout the course of a day, plans started to be made in earnest.

Feeling hopeful, John retired to his quarters at the end of the day.

His mind had been hard at work that day, sorting through the traditions and views of his kingdom. When he returned to his stately bedroom, however, and saw what was waiting for him on his regal bed, his mind went utterly blank.

“Welcome back, Your Majesty,” a gentle voice greeted him.

Sherlock was on the bed, on his knees, wearing a black gown and a white apron with intricate patterns. He was also wearing a dainty headpiece that was tied in the back in a large bow. The dress was familiar, though it took several long moments for John, dumbfounded as he was, to recall that the ensemble had belonged to his previous maid.

As Sherlock was rather taller than the maid before him, the dress was not long enough to reach his feet. This meant that John could see a good deal of Sherlock’s long, fair legs. Socks covered his feet, but there were no shoes.

“There was a black pair of shoes, with buckles,” Sherlock said quietly, following John’s line of sight, “but they didn’t fit me.”

Almost breathlessly, John said, “We’ll have to get you a pair that fits, then.”

“Then you like me in this, sir?”

John approached the bed without thinking, every nerve in his body demanding to be closer to Sherlock. “I can’t take my eyes off you.”

Sherlock blushed, and played nervously with the hem of his dress. “I’m glad it pleases you. I don’t know why I wanted to wear this, but it felt right, somehow. I confess, I like being your maid.”

“My dear Sherlock.” With a light caress, John touched Sherlock’s chin.

That small touch was sufficient to make the servant shudder. “John,” he gasped. “What would you like? I’ll do anything for you.”

John stroked the sides of Sherlock’s face, loving the little sounds that came from Sherlock. A deep, almost primal delight filled John at the thought that these noises were for him. “Actually, I would like something, Sherlock, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Would you play your violin for me?”

“Oh, if you would like that?” Sherlock said, happily. “Of course, sir.” He hopped off the bed energetically, and found the violin case that had been left at the side of the room.

Sherlock opened the case and took hold of the violin. Standing before the king, he played a simple but charming piece.

“That’s very nice, Sherlock.” The king gave his praises freely, enjoying how they made Sherlock flush.

Listening to the tunes of the violin, John was treated to beauty in sound, as well as in sight. His servant was already energetic, but he became even more vibrant when he played his music.

Sherlock finished playing, and bowed when John gave him applause. Holding the violin under his arm, Sherlock moved back to the case.

“Wait, Sherlock,” John said, “could you leave the violin out for a moment?”

This request appeared to puzzle Sherlock, but he did as he was asked, placing the violin on a table.

“Good. I want to show you something.” John strode to a chest where some items were kept that had been moved from the caravan, and one by one, starting placing objects on the table, next the violin.

There was the sword that John had used in the warrior’s tournament, the flint and steel that Sherlock had used to light fires, a book about chemistry that seemed to be instantly familiar to Sherlock by its cover, a candle that had been made from beeswax, a pointed copper cup used to heat ale, an empty jug with a label for apple cider, a set of chains that brought another flush to Sherlock’s cheeks, the violin of course, and finally, a trowel meant for use in a garden.

“Look familiar?” John asked, grinning.

Sherlock glanced at each item, and then at John. “Sir,” he said, in awe.

Touched, John smiled. “The library was nice enough to let me buy the book, and it was easy to keep one of the candles we got from the temple. I purchased the cup from the brewery, and kept one of the apple cider jugs after we finished the drink inside. The chains, well, my friend owed me, so he was happy to let me to take them as a souvenir from the fortress. You know the rest.”

“Why did you keep these things?”

“I want to remember the journey. I know it’s awfully sentimental, but our travels meant so much to me, because each of these things reminds me of a time that I shared with you.”

“John…” Sherlock touched some of the objects, resting his hand on the chains. “I’m glad you kept these,” he murmured. “I hope we can use them again sometime.”

This surprised John, but he was ecstatic to hear it. He started to feel very warm. “Oh, well, if you’d like that. I’d like that, too.”

“There are a lot of things I’d like to do with you, John. You said that I would never have to fight it, if I need you.” Returning to the bed, Sherlock, blushing, couldn’t quite meet John’s eyes. “Please, sir, take me. I want to be your maid, I want you to serve you in every way.”

His heart pounding, John had to take a deep breath to steady himself. “Yes, Sherlock.” He sat next to Sherlock, and held him close, feeling the fabric of a gown and apron under his hands. “You don’t have to fight it. I’ll take care of you.”

John undressed himself completely, and directed Sherlock to take off only his socks and underclothing. Sherlock was adorably shy as John guided him to lie down on the bed still wearing his maid’s clothing. It looked so lovely on Sherlock.

Retrieving his jar of oil, John sat in front of Sherlock, and parted his legs, pushing the skirt up to reveal what was underneath. He was gratified to see the swelling of Sherlock’s desire. “How is this?” John asked, touching Sherlock’s knee.

Sherlock’s eyes were roaming over John’s form. “More, John. I need you.”

“I have you.” John placed a pillow under his servant’s rear, and began preparing Sherlock with the oil, as careful as ever with his beloved servant.

Sherlock sighed. “Your hand feels good in me. I like having you in me.”

“Good, Sherlock,” John murmured, stretching his dear maid some more.

“Sir… I, um…”

“What is it?”

“I was just thinking… I did want to bear your children, sir. I know that I can’t, but I still think of it, sometimes.”

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.” John paused, concerned, though when Sherlock whimpered with need, he quickly resumed his task. “This is good though, isn’t it? I’m going to spill myself in you, mark you with my seed.”

Sherlock moaned deeply, almost forcefully.

Tenderly, John pushed another finger into Sherlock. “I’ll fill you with me, I’ll take you completely. It’ll mean so much. We’re together, we’re connected, we’re doing what we both want to do with each other. And it will leave a lasting feeling in both of us. It’s natural and beautiful. It’ll feel so lovely, when I fill you with my seed.”

“Oh, sir, please. I can’t wait any longer.”

“Of course, Sherlock…”

John grasped Sherlock’s hips, and pushed himself into the tight, blazing heat of his beloved maid.

He grunted from the onslaught of gratification and perfection, and listened to the charming music of Sherlock crying out in pleasure.

“J-John, yes, more… Oh!” Sherlock cried, when John moved just right in him.

John pulled back and thrust again, picking up a pace that would satisfy his servant.

The tension that John had felt in the caravan when he’d had Sherlock in his mouth, the longing that had simmered in the king for ages, possibly this entire time, returned to the king all at once. The force of his urge to possess his dear maid was beyond stopping now. He had never needed anything like he needed Sherlock.

“I want to come in you,” John said in a low tone, thrusting in a steady rhythm, “I want to fill you, I want you to be mine.”

Sherlock writhed, his arms trembling as he grasped the bed. “Yes, oh, please, yes!” The skirt of his dress bounced with John’s movements.

“You’re so good, Sherlock. I love you, I love you…”

“Sir,” Sherlock gasped, nearly overwhelmed. “I’m yours.”

It was only a few more thrusts before John finished, with a rough grunt, emptying himself within his beloved maid. His gratification was intensified when he felt Sherlock reach his peak as well, crying out John’s name as his body trembled and then relaxed under the king.

Just as John had said, there was the feeling that what they had just done was meaningful. John felt it, and he was certain that Sherlock, who breathed more evenly and tipped his head back, his mouth open in bliss, felt it also.

After a while, John cleaned them, kissing Sherlock’s thighs lightly as he did so. “You’re gorgeous, Sherlock.”

Looking calm and peaceful, Sherlock smiled at him.

“I wish I could look at you all day,” John remarked. “I don’t just want to look at you either. I want to talk to you, be with you. I think about you so much. Whenever I sit on the throne now, I think of you.”

John tossed his rag aside, and lied down next to Sherlock.

“Actually, I want you there, by my side, but I know that you support me, that you’re behind me. I want to talk about everything with you. You’ll rule with me even if nobody else knows it. It looks like a throne for one person, but it’s really a throne for two.”

Sherlock was staring at John in fascination and wonder. It was an expression that John never tired of seeing on his servant’s face. “Do you mean that?”

“Absolutely. In fact, I wanted to talk to you about something. Hah, you really do distract me!” John chuckled, and Sherlock smirked a little. “I forgot to tell you that I spoke with my advisors today. They think it’s possible for me to will the throne to an heir of my choosing, and it seems likely that the public will support a tournament.”

“That is promising news. Undoubtedly, that will make for an exciting tournament.”

“I think you’re right.” John looked towards the ceiling, thinking about the future. “It could be the stuff of legends, a tournament of knights to find a suitable monarch. And you’ll be the magical spirit of the story, the true judge who finds the young person who is most worthy. Does that part sound exciting?”

“Very much, sir,” Sherlock answered, enthusiastically.

That was all that John needed to hear.

Abruptly, Sherlock added, “Then I will be the one to provide you with an heir after all!”

This surprised John, and though he was a little amused, he was also somewhat concerned. “You know I would still love you, with an heir or without, right? No matter what, I’ll be happy with you.”

Sherlock nodded in agreement, smiling. “I know, John.”

Now there was nothing for John to worry about. He cuddled with Sherlock on the bed, and together, they reminisced about their travels.

That night, John slept soundly, Sherlock’s back against his chest.

Early in the morning, they walked outside of the castle together, John in the fine garb of a king, Sherlock in the simple clothes of the king’s servant. They had both wanted to visit the royal caravan again, together. They headed now towards that vehicle, which was kept in a guarded structure near the castle with other vehicles belonging to noble visitors and influential merchants.

John and his servant were allowed near the caravan at once, and given some privacy when the king demanded it. He was used to seeing a horse attached to it, but otherwise the royal caravan appeared as it had before.

After climbing into the caravan, John helped Sherlock into the vehicle, too. They sat together on the built-in sofa, looking around at the gold-painted details and fine tapestries of the interior, faintly illuminated by windows that were partially covered.

“Do you think you’ll ever travel again, sir?” Sherlock asked, surprising the king when he placed his hand on John’s. It was a gentle movement, but unusually bold for his servant. Or, perhaps, not so unusual anymore.

Pleased, John curled his hand around Sherlock’s. “There’s always places for a king to travel to,” he said. “I’m sure there will be other adventures for us.”

“I’m already looking forward to them, then.”

“I’d say we’re already on our next adventure, though. The greatest adventure I’ve ever known.” John wrapped his arms around Sherlock. “Ruling my kingdom with the love of my life.”

The servant settled against the king’s chest, humming softly.

Eventually, they would have to return to the castle and see to their daily tasks; for now, however, surrounded by memories of the past, hopes for the future, and the sweetness of the present, they were in no hurry to leave the royal caravan.

End~


End file.
